American Insider
by Writer by Moonlight
Summary: After receiving a promotion, Nicole Stryker moves from the Manhattan Police in New York to the New Scotland Yard in London. Armed with swagger and an intimidating New York accent, Nicole works with the famous (or infamous?) Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson on their greatest case yet: Moriarty's return. Takes place after Season 3. Rated T for mild swearing.
1. Welcome to London

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place directly after Season 3 of Sherlock. I've never been to London but I have been to NYC several times, so I hope my interpretation of London is close enough. :)

"Please put your tray tables in the upright position," the flight attendant announced sweetly over the intercom.

The passengers obeyed, all sighing with satisfaction that the long plane flight was finally coming to an end. I was with them, especially since I was loosing feeling in my extremities and my rear end.

I folded up my tray table and removed the fifth _Harry Potter_ book that I'd been rereading to pass the time. Stashing it in my purple and black plaid backpack, I peered out the airplane window.

I could see London below us, the people scurrying around like little ants. A smile pushed its way on to my face; this promotion was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Twenty minutes later, the plane landed and all the passengers including myself got off and entered the terminal. After another frustrating fifteen minutes of looking for my luggage at Baggage Claim, I hailed a cab and took it into the great city of London. My cab driver had a delightful British accent, a nice change from the New York accent I normally heard every day. His face was dirty with a scruffy goatee, but his eyes glowed with compassion for the confused tourist.

"So where are 'ou from?" he asked cheerily, scratching his beard as he drove down the busy highway.

"Manhattan, New York," I replied, hearing the sharp contrast between my stark accent and his honey-buttered one.

Outside my window, Big Ben towered over us for a moment and then was gone; the cabbie was driving awfully fast. London felt like a British New York City to me.

"You're a long way from 'ome," he mused. "Any reason?"

"Promotion, got moved," I replied simply, not wanting to give out too much to a stranger, no matter how friendly he may be.

He nodded with approval from the wrong side of the car where he was driving. "Congratulations. 'Ou'll like it 'ere. Great for tourism. Very crowded though, so watch your step."

He turned around a little to flash a smile at me in the backseat, which I returned.

"I've worked in New York City for a while, I think I can handle London."

As we entered London, we drove past the great TV billboards that would normally be displaying ads for companies.

But as we drove by, they showed a man with brown hair and brown eyes in a suit, with the words "MISS ME?" floating above his head. His chin moved as if he was speaking but his mouth remained closed.

That's all I saw as the cabbie drove by, but the looks on the Londoners faces nearby seemed shocked.

_Must be a celebrity, _I assumed, o_r a new advertising campaign. _

And I thought nothing more of it for the rest of the drive.

After settling into my hotel room, I took another cab (yet again driving on the wrong side of the room, which unnerved me a little) to the New Scotland Yard where I'd been promoted. The huge, towering building resembled those from where I was from: skyscraping, silver, and unfeeling.

A bit of doubt crept its way into my tough resolve, but I stomped it down before it could do any damage.

"Well, here goes nothing," I murmured, and strode into my new job.

The building was moderately crowded, not too bad though. People strode very business-like here and there, all in suits or pantsuits. The atmosphere felt tense, but it also was like that at my old job so I thought nothing of it.

The inside of the building was like the outside, silver and cold to the eyes. The floors were silver marble and the walls were washed white; it made my eyes hurt.

My old office was more colorful at least, with some hanging pictures of successful police officers and detectives. People were as business-like as they were here, unless they knew you, then you were greeted with a friendly insult like, "Look what the cat drug in," and "Speak of the devil…" and other ones with profanity.

Homesickness pricked me in the side and I struggled to shake it off.

I brought out my ID tag from my pocket and hung it around my neck before continuing forward.

I knew where to go; my boss had walked me through it on an online tutorial so I wouldn't look like a deer in headlights on my first day.

One person greeted me cheerily, his accent a bit more garbled than the cabbie's. This took me off guard; most people I saw in the New York offices didn't even look at you if you didn't know them.

But, I said hello back in my unintentionally intimidating New Yorker accent and his smile disappeared immediately.

_Jeez, _I thought as I walked past him into the offices. _I'm going to get a bad rep before I say anything past "hello." _

I found the offices with ease, thanks to my good memory. A door labeled, "Greg Lestrade, Head Detective" in gold lettering stood imperatively at the end of the hallway. Around me were office desks in small, claustrophobic cubicles with their busy bees typing away endlessly at the keyboards to the computers, which ranged from old version Macs to the newest MacBook Airs.

A busy bee in a dress shirt and tie shouldered past me with a handful of folders. I smiled; it felt like home.

No one else had noticed me except for two worker bees that eyed me over their cubicle walls. I squared my shoulders and strode imperatively to the boss's office and delivered a demanding _knock-knock-knock_ to his wooden door.

The talk that had gone on in there ceased immediately after the second knock, and my blood ran cold.

_Did I interrupt something important? _I thought witheringly. _Darn it! I should've knocked more nicely! _

There was a shuffle of footsteps and the door opened halfway. A man in his mid-thirties with grey-brown hair and brown eyes stood in the frame of the door, and his eyebrows shot up.

For a moment, my voice caught in my throat and I couldn't speak. A very awkward five seconds passed, and I was already kissing my new job goodbye and preparing the hole I wish I were stuck in instead.

"Can I help you?" the boss asked at last.

"Yes," I said finally, praising God in my head for giving me the ability to speak again. I only hoped the butterflies in my stomach would settle or drop dead. "I'm the transfer from Manhattan, I'm sure Mr. Briggs notified you this morning via email."

The boss nodded with acknowledgment, though blinking a little fast.

"Yes, come in." He opened the door wider and I stepped in and saw whom he was talking to.

There was a short man with grey hair though he didn't look old – just barely into his forties, probably – with a black buttoned up coat and dark slacks. His grey eyes flicked to me from the window and his eyebrows rose, too.

_I should've worn a British flag or something to blend in, _I thought sarcastically.

The second man was quite interesting. He had dark brown, curly locks that framed his long, chiseled face and complemented his bright blue eyes. Those bright blue eyes saw me at once and studied me like a specimen under a microscope.

That bothered me. My inner New Yorker that I tried to suppress at times came out.

"What are you looking at?" I spat out in a tone that would make my colleagues proud to know me. His eyes quickly averted to the carpet, but his face remained as stony as it had been.

"Actually…" he began, his voice deep and very British.

"_Sherlock,_" the other man chided, and the man named Sherlock stopped.

_Sherlock? _I thought as Mr. Lestrade closed the door behind me and walked awkwardly to his desk. _He definitely got made fun of in high school. _

"John, Sherlock," Mr. Lestrade began, and I could see that their previous conversation was over. The three all seemed a little deflated, and my confidence plummeted a little. "This is Nicole Wright, our new transfer from New York. She'll be helping us out, and working with you two… if she has the patience for it."

The Odd Couple turned to me with expectant looks.

I quickly answered, "Sure. Anywhere I'm needed, that's where I'll be."

"I'm sorry for your loss," the oddball Sherlock announced.

I stared at him in shock. "Excuse me?"

"Your dog," he said, as if it were obvious. "He died a few days ago. May I ask what killed him?"

"Sherlock!" John chided again, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"A hit-and-run car? Congenital disease? No, if it were congenital then your eyes wouldn't be so puffy; you would be expecting it. It was a car, wasn't it? A stranger? A neighbor? No, not someone you know… a busy street. You're from New York, the Big Apple! Busy streets…a police offer – no, detective! A police officer wouldn't dress like that-," he gestured to my clothes, his facial expressions changing rapidly as he spoke as he discovered new information on me.

I glanced at my Muse band T-shirt and my dark blue jeans and purple hi-top converse. Mr. Briggs said I could wear whatever I liked; that my status at Manhattan Police was good enough for my file to give me a good first impression.

Apparently Sherlock thought differently.

Meanwhile, the man continued babbling, spilling out information he shouldn't have known.

"Your dog was a border collie, judging by the hairs on your shirt. But the fact that that shirt is from the band's 2005 concert tour means you've had this dog for a while since the hairs are new and old. You must have sentimental feelings towards the animal, thus making her death a horrible occasion, which is why you seem quite tired and yet happy about leaving home…"

"Sherlock!" Mr. Lestrade shouted in exasperation, and Sherlock quieted like a kicked puppy. "Let's try to welcome Ms. Stryker and not scare her off, please?"

He turned back to me. "So sorry about that, he rambles quite often. But he's a genius, so please be patient."

"Well, most geniuses are considered insane… some are just psychopaths," I retorted, staring hard at Sherlock who delivered an equally hard stare. Especially since he put Rocky back in my head.

"High functioning sociopath," he murmured, more to himself.

I turned to him, suddenly irate. "Hey, buddy, if you're gonna say something say it to my face!" The New York accent literally absorbed the room with awkward silence.

Sherlock, gazing at the floor, said matter-of-factly, "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath."

Embarrassment and confusion engulfed me. "Oh… got it."

"Ms. Stryker," Mr. Lestrade addressed me cautiously. "You'll be working with these two for a while. We've got a big case and we're going to need as much help as we can get."

I heard my mouth say, "Alright," but my mind was frozen. I had to work with the high-functioning sociopath and his sidekick?

_This is going to be harder than I thought… _


	2. Evening Tea

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This one is a bit shorter but I did that on purpose:) Be patient, the story will pick up fairly quickly! Thank you to all those who favorited this story, it's my first one so it means the world to me! :D By the wild, there's mild swearing in this chapter but only to really display emotions.

After getting my own authorized gun and holster and official New Scotland Yard police ID, I left the building with Sherlock and John. They insisted on buying me a cup of tea and get to know each other before we started working on our big case.

Actually, it was John who came up with the idea of getting me some tea. Sherlock wasn't too ecstatic about it; he groaned loudly when John made the suggestion.

So there we were, walking the streets of London to the teashop John knew of. My head swiveled as if I were at a tennis match, trying to catch every bit of London as I walked at John and Sherlock's quick pace.

The London air was chilly and breezy and I suddenly wished that I'd worn a jacket. Sherlock and John both had nice warm coats; I made a mental note to ask them where I could get a coat like theirs in this city.

In mid-swivel, my eyes found the teashop – a quaint, wooden shop next to some nice, white apartment buildings. We strode into the teashop and Sherlock successfully let the door slam in my face.

I muttered obscenities against him under my breath as I walked inside. The inside was as quaint as it was on the outside.

A dozen little tables were scattered about in an almost orderly yet unorganized fashion. Each table had a small glass vase with wilting daisies sitting in dirty water and the silverware was set carefully on red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths.

A scowl wormed its way on my face.

It was too cute and nice; I wanted my crowded Starbucks where the baristas knew my order by heart and I would exchange greeting-insults with the regulars at their regular tables as my coffee was being made. Again I shoved down some homesickness like a large pill.

The three of us settled down at a table and the waitress came over and laid down menus.

_This is new, _I thought, feeling slightly optimistic. _Not too often I get to eat out. _

Despite working for the police, I tried not to eat out much since I couldn't leave Rocky home alone too long and most restaurants in my city were either too expensive or too cheap to trust the food.

John and Sherlock picked up their menus and scanned them as if they did this every day. Well, they probably did.

After glancing between them awkwardly, I picked up a menu and scanned the choices.

_Aw, you gotta be kidding me, _I inwardly groaned. _They don't have any hamburgers here? Any coffee, at least? _

To my great inner joy, I found a suitable option at the very bottom of the menu: a café mocha for five British pounds.

I placed a hand on my pocket and felt my wallet; still had American dollars. I'd have to ask John to pay for me.

_This is embarrassing. _

"So, Nicole," John began, setting his menu down and folding his hands on the table. "Tell us about yourself."

I just stared at him. _What is this, a damn interview? _

"Um, what do you want to know?" I asked, shifting uneasily in my seat.

_Why are British people so nosy? _

"Well, what's it like in New York City?" he asked amicably.

I shrugged.

"Well, for me it's just home. But for tourists… it's crowded, the air is polluted, people tend to be on the meaner side at times, just 'cause we've got places to go and people to see, y'know? We don't have time to sit and chat or deal with idiots…" I trailed off, thinking about home. "But it's a pretty city. Got lots of skyscrapers, the Empire State Building and such. Broadway Avenue is quite a sight, I'm sure you've seen pictures. And the stores are awesome."

As I spoke, John gazed at me the entire time, listening attentively and nodding along with my descriptions. Meanwhile, Sherlock played with his silverware and glanced around the teashop, mouthing the word 'bored' repeatedly and occasionally whispering it.

"But enough about me," I said, feeling too talkative and Sherlock wasn't helping. "Tell me about you, I guess."

John smiled; I wasn't able to tell if it was fake or genuine. "Well, I spent three years in Afghanistan as an army doctor. Since then, I met this weirdo-," he gestured to Sherlock, who quickly looked up from his silverware, "—and we kind of became famous for solving cases…"

"Because you had to blog about each one," Sherlock muttered, examining his fork.

That sparked something in my memory. "Hey, I think I heard about that on BBC America. So you're a consulting detective or something?" I asked, pointing at Sherlock.

He glanced up, mild interest in his eyes at being recognized.

"The one and only," he murmured sarcastically.

I nodded. I assumed now was a reasonable opportunity to ask a question that'd been in the back of my mind.

"So, how did you know that stuff about my dog?"

Still examining his fork, Sherlock replied emotionlessly, "Simple deduction. The baggy under-eyes, dog hairs on your shirt, the age of your shirt, blah blah blah…" he sighed and leaned back. "_God _I'm bored!"

"We're just having tea, Sherlock, be patient," John chided, casting a warning glance at his friend.

I glanced between the two men. _Friends?_

"So are you two…" I began, waving a finger between them.

John scrutinized my finger for a moment and then it dawned on him.

"Oh God no, we're just good friends," he explained, "I'm happily married – to a woman."

I nodded in acknowledgment. Sherlock turned to me with a sudden sparked interest that unnerved me.

"What about you, Ms. Stryker?" he asked, his deep voice nearly cooing. "Have you a significant other?" He folded his hands on the table like John did.

_Damn he's creepy. _

"Nope, I'm fine on my own. Don't have time for relationship nonsense," I explained easily, but it came out colder than I'd intended. I was being honest; I'd been in a few relationships before and they were a total waste of time.

Thank the great Lord above, the waitress came over at that moment and asked for our orders. The two British men ordered tea, no surprise. And I, sticking true to my American-ness, ordered a steaming hot café mocha coffee.

I took a sip and tried to think of home. I hadn't imagined how tough the homesickness would hit me; I had estimated it'd sink in around the first or second week, let alone the first day.

_Well, who knows, _I mused, glancing up at the kind doctor and condescending consulting detective across from me. _Maybe I'll end up liking it here. _


	3. Helping Hands

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So this chapter is a bit longer than the rest, just a heads up. I've also named all the chapters now, in case anyone's mildly interested. :)

Also, thank you so much to everyone who has viewed and read this story, and big virtual hugs to those who have favorited/followed this story! It makes my day to see so many people reading and enjoying what I'm writing! :D

I'm probably going to change the story description a little since I've been developing the plot line a bit more.

So, grab a plum and enjoy Chapter 3 :)

After about a half hour of mild chit chat over tea and coffee, the three of us walked out of the cute little teashop. The London air bit and swiped at my exposed skin, sending shivers up my spine.

Sherlock and John both hailed their own cabs and left, leaving me to hail my own. I did it with ease, thanks to years of aggressively hailing cabs in the city. As the cab pulled up to me, I took out some British pounds that John lent me and I handed them to the cabbie.

John had paid for my coffee willingly enough, but I still felt like a completely idiotic tourist. To avoid future situations like that, he generously lent me some money and I promised to pay him back when I got my paycheck.

This cabbie drove more smoothly than the last, winding between slow cars and other cabs like a Grand Theft Auto professional. I leaned back in the cab and took my first deep, relaxed breath all day; I'd been tenser than I'd realized.

I pulled my Samsung Galaxy S III out of my pants pocket and scrolled through my contacts. I slowed at the "J's" and gazed at my newest number.

JOHN WATSON, mobile

Over our tea and coffee, I'd exchanged numbers with the friendly doctor and arranged to meet at Sherlock's apartment at noon tomorrow to finally discuss the serious case Lestrade had mentioned earlier.

_221B Baker Street, _he'd told me. I'd have to look that up on Google Maps later.

Sherlock didn't object to this suggestion as much and even shook my hand after John did.

_Maybe he's warming up to me, _I wondered. _Or he assumed he'd be less bored this time around._

A light, whimsical pitter-patter hit the cab windows in the form of raindrops.

I smirked. _Of course it's raining in London. At night, too. What luck. _

I turned my gaze back to my phone that illuminated most of the backseat. I turned the screen off and slipped it back into my pocket.

I still didn't know anything about this new big case that I was going to be helping John and Sherlock with. I chewed my lip; a big case on my first day, that was big. I had a good reputation back in Manhattan, but a huge case with the New Scotland Yard?

_Well, I can handle anything they throw at me. I'm from New York. _That settled my nerves considerably.

The light pitter-patter quickly turned into a torrential rain, hammering the sides of the cab as it made its way to my hotel. But it didn't seem to hamper the cabbie's smooth driving, much to my relief.

After a few minutes of idly checking my phone, the cab slowed to a stop and I looked up through the window. The lights from my hotel shimmered through the heavy raindrops and it occurred to me that the hotel was _across_ the street from the cab.

_I don't have time for this! _I thought angrily.

Nevertheless thanking the cabbie, I threw open the door and ran like a mad woman across in the hurricane-like rain.

My converse squeaked and slid on the pavement and the wind howled around me and tore at the clothes that stuck to my wet body.

Suddenly my foot slipped out from underneath me and my face hit the pavement hard. Bright lights clouded my vision and my head was about to explode. Fire shot up my ankle and calf and I let out a pitiful moan.

I registered the sound of water splashing about and a car honk. The lights got brighter and I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to think or move.

Hands grabbed me by the arms and pulled me across the street, dragging me at a pace too fast for my obviously twisted ankle that burned like fire.

We must've entered the hotel moments later because I felt warmth on my skin and smelled the old leather smell of the lobby couches.

I struggled to open my eyes and see my rescuer, but when I did everything blurred together in spurts of bright light.

_Maybe I should… just go to sleep… _

The bright lights dimmed a little, but the rescuer didn't stop dragging me.

_My head really hurts… it hurts. _

I slipped away just as the _creeeeek _of an old door opening penetrated my ears.

Bright lights engulfed me and warmth massaged my skin. I opened my eyes slowly, and then shut them against the harsh sunlight. I moved my hands against the mattress beneath me… I was in my bed. I didn't remember getting into bed last night.

My brain pounded against my skull and my muscles ached. I moaned in agony and attempted to open my eyes again.

The light was less harsh and it occurred to me that it was daytime. I slowly moved my head to the bedside table. The little digital clock read 11:30 am.

"Oh, crap," I murmured, "I'm late for work."

I didn't have the brain functionality to really care that much, though.

_Man, did I get hung over last night? _I wondered. I struggled to remember what happened yesterday. A sudden picture of red and white checkerboard came to mind. _Oh, I went out to that little teashop with… John. John and… what's his face, that narcissistic detective guy. _

Then what else? _I took a cab home… it was raining… _

My head released a shockwave of pain and I quit reminiscing.

_Maybe after some Advil and some rest. _

I managed to locate my phone on the bedside table and sent a text to John to ask him to let my absence be excused from the New Scotland Yard this morning. I assumed he was on good terms with… the main guy, the boss, whatever his name was.

As I sent my phone down, I saw a crumpled piece of tissue with a note beneath it. Curious, I picked up the note and brought it to my face.

It read:

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – _

_I took the one less traveled by, _

_And that has made all the difference. _

I narrowed my eyes at it. _What the heck? _

I grabbed the tissue and unwrapped it hastily. Inside, I found two pills of Advil. A shiver went down my spine.

_This is too weird. People don't just do this… this is messed up. _

Nonetheless, I swallowed the Advil pills and waited an hour. Amazingly, I felt a lot better – still a little out of it, but definitely better.

I got up out of bed, showered, changed clothes, and then took more Advil that I had packed in my suitcase. It had been a new bottle, but the seal was broken.

_So apparently they were too cheap to give me some of their own Advil, _I realized with a scowl. _And they went into my suitcase. Fantastic. _

But nothing was stolen… _how odd, _I mused.

Remembering I had somewhere to be, I texted John saying I was going to be a half hour late. He replied with what I took as a surprised "Ok :)" and I went outside to hail yet another cab.

"Alright," the cabbie said in an annoyed tone as I got in. "Where to?"

In my foreign New Yorker accent I said, "221 B, Baker Street. And step on it, I haven't all day."


	4. 221B Baker Street

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is considerably longer than the others, but it has a lot more of the Sherlock characters :) Thank you again to all who are following/favoriting/reading/reviewing this story, it just makes my heart so happy! :D So grab a peach and enjoy Chapter 4!

The cab pulled up to a pair of white apartment buildings, the first labeled 221A and the second labeled 221B. Each had short steps leading up to it and black decorative handrails; the buildings reminded me strongly of my old apartment back home.

I paid the cabbie, got out, and walked up to apartment 221B.

Standing before the dark wooden door, I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

No answer.

So I knocked again.

Silence.

I huffed a breath of irritation. I delivered a demanding and ferocious rapping upon Mr. Holmes' chamber door, but I received the same answer: Nevermore.

Completely fed up, I tried the doorknob. The door opened easily, revealing a dark hallway before me.

I walked in hesitantly, slowly closing the door behind me. A loud thud echoed from behind me, despite how careful I'd been with the door. I paused in my footsteps, my head swiveling around to watch for any angry homeowners coming to tear my limbs from my torso for trespassing.

Silence filled the house. My own breathing seemed too loud.

I examined my surroundings: dark wallpaper and wooden floors with a long stairwell greeting me at my entrance. Another hallway went off beside the staircase, but it was shrouded in darkness and I thought it best to not venture into it.

_Maybe no one is home, _I wondered. I pulled out my phone and checked the time: 12:45pm. I was forty-five minutes late; John and Sherlock had to be up there.

_Maybe they went off on a case, _the thought popped into my head and instantly pissed me off.

My ankle still ached from whatever happened last night and I had to practically overdose myself on Advil to keep the migraine away. I was pulling out all the stops for these guys, the least they could do was show up at our meeting place!

Furiously, I stomped up the stairwell, feeling my anger burn my cheeks and in my ankle. I saw a door ahead at the end of the stairs; I assumed it was Sherlock's room, so I burst in.

"Hello, hello!" I yelled, walking in. "Anyone ho-!" I stopped when I saw a man in the room and he wasn't Sherlock or John.

The man wore a dark grey suit and red tie, his light brown hair neatly groomed and his light blue eyes examining me like a specimen under a microscope.

"Who are you?" he asked, bewildered. He standing by the window, a hand holding back the white curtains.

My anger was completely melted away, replaced by embarrassment and fear.

"N-Nicole Stryker," I stuttered. I hated the way the man stared at me; it made me feel so… powerless. "I'm a colleague of Sherlock's."

The man's face took me by surprise by breaking into a grin. "Ah, another detective." He strode to me and extended a gloved hand.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself regally. "Head of British Parliament."

My embarrassment further increased. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry I just barged in here…" I trailed off.

_Oh, God, I'm going to get deported! _

The government man just chuckled. "It's quite alright. It was quite a show, actually." He flashed me a smile that I couldn't tell was genuine or not.

"So, um," I stammered, searching my mind for conversation topics.

I glanced at the rest of the room for a moment and saw no sign of Sherlock or John.

_Damn them! Now I'm stuck with Mr. Government Man here…_ _wait, did he say his last name was Holmes? _

"So, you're related to Sherlock?" I began, trying to sound as confident as possible.

Mr. Government Man nodded to my question, though much less enthusiastically then I would've guessed.

"Yes, I'm his big brother. And where are you from?" He asked very authoritatively.

"Manhattan, New York," I replied automatically.

He nodded as a smile crept on his face.

"I guessed that, judging by your boisterous accent."

Without even thinking, I squared my shoulders to him – and he was considerably taller than me, by at least a head – and narrowed my eyes at him.

"What, you got a problem with my accent?"

It was too late before I realized what I was doing. I was about to cry out an apology when Mycroft backed away a little, raising his hands in innocence.

"Oh no, not at all. It's quite interesting, actually," he insisted, never losing the cool edge in his voice.

I inwardly congratulated my instincts for taking care of things the New York way.

"Good," I said. "Then we're on the same page." I crossed my arms over my chest and just stared him down. He kept his composure, but I could see it in his eyes that my attitude was bugging him.

_Yeah, I'm definitely getting deported. _

Suddenly the front door opened and closed and a thunder of footsteps on stairs followed. I turned around and, to my heart's delight, saw John and Sherlock coming to the rescue.

Sherlock saw me first and gave me a friendly though fake smile as he strode in. John, on the other hand, gave me a genuine smile and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey, sorry we're late, we got caught up in a case," he explained, looking absolutely winded. The bags under his eyes were bigger than they were yesterday.

"No worries," I lied. "I wasn't waiting long."

"She was keeping me company," Mycroft said from across the room. John looked in his direction as if seeing him for the first time.

"Mycroft, I didn't know you were coming today," he said, not seeming too excited to see Sherlock's brother.

"I have important matters to discuss with you, didn't Sherlock tell you?" Mycroft said, picking up a suitcase from the floor that I didn't see earlier.

John clenched his jaw and turned his gaze to Sherlock, who was returning from the kitchen minus his long coat and blue scarf.

"No, he didn't tell me."

Sherlock strode to the middle of the room and sat down in the black modern-looking chair.

"Let it go, I had a lot on my mind," Sherlock muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "Come on, everyone gather around. We have much to discuss."

So we all gathered around, Sherlock in his chair and John in his red plaid chair while I perched on one of the red plaid chair's armrests and Mycroft stood by the fireplace, staring us all down.

I glanced down at my outfit, seeing my 2014 grey Muse band T-shirt and black jeans and black combat boots, and wondering if I was a little underdressed for this occasion, considering both Sherlock and his brother were wearing nice suits.

"Alright, let's get down to business," Sherlock said, touching his fingertips together. "Moriarty is back somehow, so we need to find out _why._ Mycroft, what have you found?"

Mycroft opened his suitcase on the mantle and brought out some papers with small black type on them. He brought them out and explained some very legal matters that went through one of my ears and out the other. So I zoned out and stared at the floor.

_Moriarty… _I thought, playing with the name in my head. _Where have I heard that name before? Moriarty… Mor…iar… ty… _

I registered the words 'bullet to the head' along with Moriarty's name. _So, he committed suicide in his prime. Moriarty… dang it, where have I heard that name? _

_Was it on the news? In the newspaper? Wait, nobody reads the newspaper anymore… _

"_Ms. Stryker_," Sherlock's agitated voice jolted me out of my thoughts.

I looked up, eyes wide.

"Yeah?"

"Please pay attention because we will not be repeating this information twice," Sherlock harshly admonished.

I felt my cheeks go hot.

"Sorry, I'm listening," I murmured sheepishly. I glanced at Mycroft, who was smirking at me. Feeling uncomfortable, my eyes darted to the floor then up to Sherlock who was speaking.

"We need to find him, since Mycroft has been no help at all," Sherlock snapped. Mycroft huffed (_So all that business talk was code for "yeah, I've got nothing," _I thought) and Sherlock continued, "so, we need to look in every place possible. Moriarty is clever; so clever that he'll purposely act un-clever because you think he'll be clever. Which makes him clever."

I nodded, surprised that that even made sense.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John said from beside me. "Last I saw him, he had 'psychopath' written all over him. I think he'll be too orderly about how he goes about causing trouble."

Sherlock gave John a condescending smile.

"Oh John, how simple your mind is. Must be so nice in there. But the obvious truth is that Moriarty knows how we work – how _I _work – and he knows we use clever tactics to catch clever criminals. So if he isn't clever, theoretically he won't be able to catch him."

"Wait, _hold up_," I said, leaning forward. "So this Moriarty guy, he's an intelligent criminal, am I right?" – Sherlock nodded – "So, he's probably got a lot of tricks up his sleeve. He's got the tire to torch us with. When we dealt with guys like this in New York, we fought fire with fire. If he's tricky, we become the Joker. If he's violent, we get ruthless. If he's stupid, we lower our expectations. You got that?"

Sherlock leaned forward towards me, suddenly interested.

"Are you proposing we beat Moriarty at his own game?"

I let the smile spread on my face.

"Exactly. He thinks he's so clever, well let's give him a taste of his own medicine."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Mycroft asked from the fireplace. I looked to him and saw an identical condescending smile as Sherlock's.

_I see the family resemblance. _

"I propose," I began in a mocking British accent, "that we lead him into thinking we're going to be clever but then actually plan something un-clever."

I crossed a leg and sipped on an imaginary teacup mockingly, my other hand serving as a dainty plate. Mycroft just smirked at me, seeming amused.

"That's genius, actually," John said. "I think that could work."

Sherlock had a hand covering his mouth, deep in meditation. He nodded-

"It's not supposed to be this easy!" he snarled suddenly. He jumped up from his chair and started pacing the room. "Moriarty is so clever, it took me longer last time… he knows our weak spots like Magnusson did, but Moriarty is out for blood this time. But WAIT!" he shouted, making us all jump except Mycroft.

"What if it's someone Moriarty has named as an heir and he's just using Moriarty's face as a terror campaign? Oh, this is the cleverness I was talking about! He's got people working for him, he told me that last time—"

"What last time?" John asked, but he was ignored.

Crossing one side of the room to the other, Sherlock continued his rant while ruffling his hair and making dramatic hand gestures.

"He'll get us all thinking one thing and then do another thing to throw us off! Then when we think he's going to do something cliché, he'll pull out something clever and throw us off again! But not this time, we'll get him…!"

I raised a hand like a polite schoolgirl. Without hesitation, Sherlock called on me in mid-pace like a professor going insane.

"If there are so many variables, then we need to do some research," I suggested. "Y'know, background searches on everyone in London and single out the sketchy people. Then we'll do extra interviews for the suspects at crime scenes to make sure they're not involved with Moriarty. Let's take this one step at a time, you got me?"

I glanced at John and Mycroft; both were nodding, much to my relief. Sherlock stopped pacing, hands still in his ebony locks of hair. He dropped his hands to his sides and sighed, almost dejected.

"The American's right," he murmured. "We can't start off too fast, that may be what throws us off Moriarty's trail."

Sherlock looked up at me and nodded.

"We'll take your suggestion, but we all need to take precautions on our own. Moriarty's minions could come and grab us at any second and use us as bait. And we can't let that happen," Sherlock turned to me and said emphatically, "You got me?"

I saluted him cheekily, though this new information churned my insides.

"Loud and clear, captain."

A few minutes later, Mycroft was getting ready to leave. He was speaking a few words with Sherlock at the door as I accepted a coat from John to wear back to my hotel since the temperature had gone down considerably.

Mycroft made a sideways glance at me as he spoke, at which I attempted a casual smile – which probably looked more like a grimace. He smiled coolly back, winked at me, and descended the dark stairs.

Sherlock walked up to John and I with his hands folded behind his back.

"Pleasure speaking with you today, Ms. Stryker. You gave some… exemplary suggestions today," he said, almost painstakingly. "And my brother agrees."

I smiled, feeling heat flow to my cheeks.

"Thanks," I said, feeling elated.

Sherlock nodded and a smirk wormed its way onto his face.

"And Mycroft had the pleasure of looking at you today, as he informed me moments ago."

That stopped me short. I stared at Sherlock, who was waiting for my reaction.

"Quote this for him," I said, "_Hell. No." _

The first genuine smile broke out on Sherlock's face.

"Word for word," he promised, bringing a lighthearted chuckle out of John.


	5. Interrogations and Investigations

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this chapter features some more Sherlock characters, so that's why it's kind of long. Thank you again to all those who are enjoying my story, seeing people reading my story just makes my little heart sing! Feel free to review and give me you thoughts on my story! :D So, grab a pomegranate and enjoy Chapter 5 :)

As Sherlock had promised, my advice was taken. Over the next few weeks, every single criminal brought into the police station at the New Scotland Yard received a thorough background check and was taken into interrogation under the slightest suspicions. Every London citizen received a strict background check as well and the ones whose pasts aroused suspicion were brought in for intense interrogations.

Lestrade, Sherlock, John, and I worked tirelessly day after day on these suspects, trying to pry any helpful secrets from their tight jaws. But, alas, it was to no avail; anyone who was found guilty wasn't guilty for the reason we sought most: alliance with Moriarty.

Over these long weeks, I met Sally Donovan, Lestrade's sergeant. Our paths first crossed when I was in the middle of a heated debate with Sherlock, John, and Lestrade over how to proceed with our recurrent interrogation failures. Believe me, tensions were rising so high I was tempted to kill someone with Lestrade's stapler.

Donovan stormed in and shut us all down, calling us un-professional and all that. I was extremely pissed off at her at first but when I cooled off, gratitude towards her replaced my anger.

I found her by her nice black Jaguar in the parking lot during a late night break and thanked her.

"Oh, it's not anything I haven't done before," she'd said, though smiling genuinely. I'd gotten the feeling she wasn't thanked for her hard work very often.

"I'm glad you showed up, honestly," I'd insisted. With a reluctant sigh, I admitted, "Sometimes my anger just gets the best of me, y'know?"

"Well, you're from New York, right?" she'd said, shrugging. "Runs in your veins, I suppose."

That had pissed me off, no surprise. But, I'd bit back my angry retort to stay on good terms with her.

"…Well, see ya," I'd murmured awkwardly. I'd turned and started to walk away when she called after me.

"Hey, Stryker."

I'd turned and faced her, further away now.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she'd warned ominously. When I didn't reply, she had added, "I know he's done some heroic things or whatever, but I still don't trust him. He's just not… normal. He's a freak, to be honest. I know you have to work with him, but don't get too involved, you'll regret it."

And with that, she had stepped into her sleek Jaguar and driven off.

_Must be an ex-girlfriend, _I had assumed with a shrug.

A few days later, I was mulling over it while watching Lestrade unsuccessfully interrogate yet another subject from behind the one-way glass.

I just couldn't place what would be so dangerous about Sherlock.

Yeah, sure he's got enemies. Who doesn't? Most of the criminals in the Manhattan Police Jail would pay good money to see my head on a pike.

In the end, I decided to ask Lestrade about it later and get his advice. He seemed perfectly fine with Sherlock's presence in the police station, so maybe he'd offer some non-relationship-driven advice.

"ANSWER THE QUESTION!" Lestrade was yelling at the suspect.

The small, round man, with his beady eyes, fat cheeks, and balding head, sat quivering in his seat.

"I-I don't know, I-I don't know why I didn't pay him back…!"

"HE WAS YOUR BROTHER!" Lestrade shouted, red in the face.

I slapped my forehead. _We are getting absolutely nowhere. _

"I DIDN'T HAVE THE MONEY!" the fat man confessed in tears. "I SPENT IT ALL IN LAS VEGAS!" And he broke down sobbing pathetically.

I covered my face with both hands and groaned.

A door beside me opened and closed.

"That bad, huh?" John's voice asked, sounding as weary as I felt.

I slowly dragged my hands off my face, probably smearing my mascara a little but not caring in the slightest. I flashed John a sarcastically cheery grimace.

"Nah, things are just dandy here, Doctor Who."

That was the nickname I'd dubbed John with. I thought it was clever since he was a doctor and he was British, but it seemed to annoy him more than anything else.

John rolled his eyes playfully and then sighed in disappointment. He glanced down at the paper-lidded cup in his hand. He took a long swig from it then wiped his mouth on his sweater sleeve.

"These cases," he explained, "are supposed to be so exciting. Y'know, with enemies out for blood and the police and Sherlock and I out to uncover them. But… it's never been so damn boring before. Sure, there've been hiatuses and things but we just filled those lulls with more cases. But this one is so big we can't do that so often." He heaved another sigh and had another swig of what I assumed was coffee.

"That'd better be some caffeinated coffee," I said, gesturing at his cup, "or else you're gonna be falling asleep in the next hour or so."

John gave a short chuckle. "Yeah, it's coffee, alright. Still feel like shit though."

"You gotta let it kick in," I insisted.

"This is my fifth cup in the past two hours," he muttered.

I let the conversation drop at that. I glanced at my phone: 3:00am. I'd been awake since 9:00am this past morning and my eyelids felt fifty pounds heavier.

"I'd like to go back in time and stab myself before I made the suggestion about having interrogations," I admitted; just in time for a lengthy yawn.

John shrugged beside me.

"Someone was bound to suggest it," he said, though I was sure he agreed with me.

A little _beep-beep-beep _went off. John fished in his pocket and retrieved his phone. He stared at the screen, forcing his eyes open in an almost drunken way.

I snorted to myself, but John was too exhausted to hear me.

"That was Sherlock," he informed me, though I didn't really care. "He's coming back with some coffee and food for a quick break."

I nodded, though all I wanted was a nice long nap.

A half hour later, Sherlock came back with all sorts of British pastries I didn't know the names of, donuts, coffee, and tea. I tried what Sherlock said was a 'crumpet' after getting a steaming mug of coffee; I found I liked the crumpet a lot. I took a paper plate and put three on it.

I mumbled a 'thanks' to Sherlock and retreated to the corner of the Employee's Lounge and parked myself in a black cushioned chair.

Everyone filed in after me: first John, then a very frustrated Lestrade, Sally Donovan, some other policemen and detectives I didn't know, and Anderson.

Anderson had gotten his job back with the police (he was fired or something, I didn't know the whole story and didn't care to know) and was helping out with keeping track of suspects and doing background checks on people.

Anderson was… different. Since I'd met him, he always parted his straight, dark brown hair down the middle very carefully but then did no grooming to his straggly goatee that was a combination of brown and grey. Whenever I got stuck in conversations with him, he would somehow divert the conversation from 'hey, the weather is crappy again today' to 'did you know Sherlock caught a bandit in Hong Kong with one foot tied to a long rod of bamboo?' or some outrageous claim. I swear, the guy is addicted to Sherlock – and I can't tell if it's some odd sexual thing or not and that makes me a little uncomfortable.

Okay, not a little. _A lot. _The guy is freaking creepy, to be completely honest.

And _lo and behold_, guess who took the chair beside me.

"Hello Nicole," Anderson greeted me nicely, balancing a plate of two donuts and four crumpets on one hand and a cup of tea in the other.

_Somebody's feeling a little lonely, _I thought. A pinch of compassion trespassed in my core. _I know what that feels like… _

I internally slapped myself. _Stop it. That's pathetic, Nicole. _

I smiled forcibly at him. We simultaneously sipped our drinks in the most awkward way possible. I lowered mine first, cleared my throat, and tried a conversation topic.

"Um, how're things?"

I'm not a conversationalist, if you haven't noticed. I don't even like people in general.

Anderson shrugged. The little dribbles of tea in his goatee were bugging me.

"Okay I guess. This whole thing with background checks is really annoying."

I forced another smile. "I know right?"

"Yeah," Anderson said, irritation creeping into his tone. "I could be meeting with the Empty Hearse every Wednesday like we're supposed to but I'm stuck doing these stupid background checks."

_What the hell is… oh, forget it. _

"Oh, sorry about that," I murmured, not feeling sorry at all.

Anderson scrunched up his face, looking like a pissed off ferret.

"I'd just like to stab the person who came up with this stupid idea, y'know?" he said a little too loudly.

I hesitated; the awkwardness was molasses in the air.

"Yeah, I have to go… somewhere else," I muttered, promptly getting up and moving across the room.

"Good talk!" Anderson called after me but I didn't turn back around.

The Employee's Lounge was pretty big so everyone fit in it with plenty of room to move around. There was a marble counter with wooden cabinets on the far side of the room with a single glass door off to the side. Chairs lined the sides of the room but there was no table, which made no sense in my head.

Along with the small groups of policemen and detectives sitting together, John and Sherlock sat side by side like a cute couple, silently eating their pastries and drinking their tea. I saw Donovan move to my seat next to Anderson and they commenced a conversation.

_Donovan, you're an idiot, _I thought, glancing at her with pity.

I gazed around the room for a moment and saw Lestrade by himself in a chair. He stared at the donut on his plate, as if willing it to bring him happiness.

I made a beeline towards him. He didn't look up until I settled into the chair beside him. He jumped a little as I sat down, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

"Oh, Nicole, hello," he greeted me, not bothering to smile.

I shifted my plate, still untouched, on my lap and held my coffee in both hands.

"'Sup," I murmured. I took a sip of my coffee, still feeling awkward but much less so.

Lestrade didn't push conversation and neither did I. We just sat in silence, enjoying the rest and the lack of tension. The other conversations created a light _buzz _in the room, almost soothingly.

As I finished off my third crumpet, I remembered my mental note from earlier. I glanced at Sherlock and John; they were locked in deep conversation about something, and Donovan and Anderson were idly chatting on the other side of the room. The others whom I didn't know were far away enough to not possible eavesdroppers.

"Hey, Lestrade?" I began, wondering how I was going to tiptoe my way through this question.

"Call me Greg," he said emotionlessly, still staring at his plate.

I hesitated.

"Okay, Greg," I corrected myself. "Can I… can I ask you something?"

That got his attention; he looked up at me, life sparked back in his grey eyes.

"I received some advice several days ago," I began, treading carefully. "From someone whom I won't name, but it kind of… troubled me. She – or he, could've been a he – said to… to not get involved with Sherlock." I made sure I whispered the last part.

Lestrade just smiled at me in an amused way. "Donovan hasn't always been on good terms with Sherlock," he explained, seeing right through my discreetness.

"Why not?" I whispered, feeling rejuvenated by the gossip.

Lestrade glanced Donovan's way for a moment, and then continued, "I've never really known, honestly. Jealousy, maybe. But she and Anderson both sided against Sherlock last time Moriarty was around, we think that's what pushed him to fake his death."

I'd taken a sip of my coffee and nearly choked on it. Nobody looked, thank God; they were too wrapped up in their own worlds.

"He did _what?" _I whispered, bewildered.

"Faked his own death, made us all believe he'd committed suicide," Lestrade explained nonchalantly. "How'd you not know?"

I shrugged, still frazzled.

"Nobody bothered to tell me."

Lestrade took his turn to shrug.

"Well, faked suicides aren't exactly a popular topic here," he said, attempting nonchalance but a bright smile spread onto his face before he finished.

I smirked and took a sip of my coffee. Emptying the cup, I tossed it into the trashcan opposite from me. It sailed in beautifully, awarding me with mild applause from Lestrade.

"Nice shot," he lauded.

I shrugged.

"I've got mad skills," I said casually.

Lestrade smirked at me, and then finally took a bite out of the lonely donut on his plate. I was positive he had no idea what I'd just said.

"Wait," I whispered, "so why is Anderson all… y'know, crazy about Sherlock?"

I knew a good joke was coming when Lestrade's smile turned mischievous.

"Well, love works in mysterious ways," he said, and I giggled.

"Do you think it was love at first attempted suicide?" I asked with mock seriousness.

"I don't know about attempted suicides, but faking deaths is how you really get the ladies."

Lestrade and I both burst out laughing.

Sherlock leaned over from his chair from further down the room.

"What's so funny, Craig?" he asked nosily, cup of tea in hand. He cocked an eyebrow at the two of us sitting together. Studying us like a specimen under a microscope, as usual.

"Nothing, Nicole just told me a joke," Lestrade lied unconvincingly, still stifling laughter. "And it's _Greg." _

"What's the joke, Nicole? Didn't know you told jokes," John chimed in, and the suggestive look was evident on his face.

_Oh no, I know what they're thinking, _I thought with an inward groan._ It's not British people who are nosy; it's just Doctor Who and Detective Smart-ass. _

Over the past few weeks, I'd gotten much closer with Sherlock and John. You could call us friends, even. Though we mainly talked about Moriarty and the interrogations, we occasionally spoke about different topics during our breaks. The current favorite was John and Sherlock wondering whom I'd be best with among our colleagues; it all started when Sherlock informed me his brother was crushing on me, or whatever (I hadn't seen Mycroft Holmes since then, thank the Lord above).

"Okay, knock knock," I said, trying to divert the conversation.

"Who's there?" a policeman called from across the room.

"Go jump off a cliff," I finished. I took my paper plate and tossed it across the room to the trash can. The plate hit the lip of the can and landed on the floor.

"I got mad skills, brah," I said sarcastically to Lestrade.

He flashed me a thumbs up, his face lit up with a joyful smile.

"I'd hate to see how you drive a car, Ms. Stryker," Sherlock teased, sipping his tea quite poshly.

"Methinks thou knowest how to drive," I began in my famous mock British accent, "lest methinks thou hast deleteth it from thy mind palace."

"Thou speakest frightful Shakespearean English," John replied in his normal accent, which nonetheless sounded far better than my attempt.

Before I could retort in a way that would've made Shakespeare roll over in his grave, a loud _beep-beep-beep _went off. That was the alarm that signaled the end of our fifteen-minute break.

I groaned under my breath. _Fun time over. _

I got up reluctantly along with everyone else and put my fallen plate in the garbage.

I made my way to the Interrogation Chamber, as I called it mentally, and picked up a file on my newest victim.

Some guy named Stephen Lewis, a teenager known for a long reputation of drug dealing.

I groaned loudly this time.

_Moriarty, please just come and blow something up so I'll have something to do! _

I tucked the file under my armpit and headed into the Interrogation Chamber. The teenager, his face ravaged by acne, sat with his shoulders hunched and his eyes at the table. His long brown hair made a curtain over his face, almost touching his shoulders. He wore a stained white T-shirt and ripped jeans with fading Nike sneakers.

When I closed the door he looked up at me slowly…

And spat a wad of tobacco on the floor.

_Bloop-bloop _went my phone. I fished it out and checked it, caring less about this stupid delinquent.

The text read: _Hey want to grab coffee sometime? –GL _

A smile spread on my face before I could stop it. I pocketed my phone and kept the smile, deciding to start off with a tactic I normally saved for later on.

"Hello, Stephen," I began cheerily. I waltzed to the steel table and took a seat in the chair across from the smelly teenager. "Welcome to hell."


	6. Make like a Mouse

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, guys! Sorry this chapter has taken so long to be posted, I've been super busy this weekend with homework, projects, and other super fun stuff. But I finally finished this chapter, yay! I hope ya'll enjoy it :)

After living in London for two months, I'd learned to 1) always carry an umbrella with me and 2) always keep my wallet full of British pounds and other coins so I don't have to borrow and repay John again like I did on my first week.

As I had learned upon my first week, New Scotland Yard had the blessed tradition of not extending the work hours to Sunday, so that was my day off after six days of intense work, little sleep, and constant human contact that made my head spin.

So, I had mostly spent my Sundays at my favorite misanthrope's apartment – whoops, I meant _flat, _as they call it here – and just had idle chats or more in-depth conversations concerning Moriarty with Sherlock. John joined us when he wasn't spending time with his wife, Mary, whom I hadn't had the honor of meeting yet (honestly, I cared less if I ever met her or not).

Before long, the inevitable happened: I was no longer able to continue paying for my meager hotel room; it was just getting too pricey, which pissed me off to no end and even scared me a little. I was losing my only home here and even after two months of residence in the busy British Big Apple.

I tried my best to conceal my worry and incessant homesickness but Sherlock and John saw right through it. They were my closest friends now and they could read me like a book.

"Alright, I'm just going to come out with it," John said one Sunday morning, gazing at me with his brows creased in worry. "There's clearly something bothering you."

The rain pounded the windows behind the white, drawn curtains, casting a cloudy glow on the room, which added to my gloom.

Sherlock glanced up at me from his violin, which he was lightly grazing with his bow, filling the room with mournful sounds, like the kind of music you'd hear in a movie after an animal gets hit by a car or something.

I was about to use my automatic response of "I'm fine, get off my back," when I felt a need in my gut to spill my emotions. That irritated me, but I knew that keeping it bottled up wouldn't ease the emotional lump inside me.

I let out a sigh in defeat, which felt sucky.

"I can't afford my hotel room anymore. It's getting too expensive. If I settle for less then I may get a low-end hotel room full of bedbugs or something… I don't know what to do."

"You're staying here," Sherlock said decidedly. I stared at him, perplexed.

"Excuse me?"

"I currently have a spare bedroom and I am in need of a flat mate, so you'll stay here and assist me in paying the rent by being my assistant on cases, along with John."

I was awestruck. _Had it been that easy all along? Damn. _

"Wow, thanks Sherlock," I murmured, still shocked.

"More for me than you," he said matter-of-factly, sounding almost bored. "With John getting ready to have a child, I'll need a back up assistant."

I'd known John's wife was pregnant and would be giving birth in the next couple months or so, which explained why John was absent from our Sunday gatherings and sometimes from the New Scotland Yard all day. It didn't seem to bother Sherlock too much, but sometimes he'd sit all by himself in the Employee Lounge forlornly and I'd have flashbacks to my childhood.

"Well, I'm glad I can help… and that I won't be living in a cardboard box on the street," I said, earning a laugh from John and an eye roll from Sherlock.

We'd hit a dead end. The weeks of interrogations and background checks and absolute boredom were all to no avail: nobody we came across seemed to be affiliated with Moriarty.

Tension rose in the New Scotland Yard as a side effect to the sleep deprivation, to the point where fights were breaking out. Even Sherlock and Lestrade got in a fight, which John and I managed to break up, but not without injuries. Sherlock' nose had been spewing blood and Lestrade's left eye had turned a nasty purplish black.

My suggestion that had seemed brilliant at 221B Baker Street was turning the police station upside down. Someone had found out it was my suggestion after all, so I couldn't walk through the New Scotland Yard building without getting hateful glares from everyone.

Well, everyone except John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. My two closest friends and… honestly, sometimes I couldn't tell about Lestrade. We had coffee (and tea, of course) with each other at least twice a week at the same modern teashop near the police station (not the same quaint one I went to on my first day), almost habitually since his first text. just discussed random topics – anything _but_ Moriarty.

Sometimes, I felt intuitively that maybe this could become something else, but then we'd continue on another random conversation topic and it just felt so… casual.

Comfortable. Not like how it feels in the movies, y'know? No pounding heartbeat, sweating, swooning, and all that Hollywood crap.

So I assumed that we were just becoming good friends and left it at that.

"Nikki?" John asked again.

We were in the Interrogation Chamber, watching Donovan grill a man on why he didn't pay his last five parking tickets. I'd been zoning out again, a habit I'd gotten into since sleep-deprivation had become a close friend of mine.

"Huh, what?" I said, looking up from my large cup of coffee to John, who was gazing at me with concern instead of methodical study. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I was saying," John began after taking a long sip of tea, "these interrogations are ridiculous. It's been a month and a half and we've come up with nothing."

Sherlock stood on my other side, gazing at the floor and nearly half asleep.

"Yeah, Detective A-Hole over here nearly got in a fight with Lestrade last week."

Sherlock's head snapped up at me and he narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"He started it, I merely fought back."

John snorted in derision.

"Please! You couldn't win a fistfight to save your life," John sneered. I shrugged in agreement with him.

Sherlock's jaw twitched.

"I would've won if you two hadn't broken us up," he huffed. He looked at me and said with a lofty grin, "I am deeply sorry for giving your boyfriend a black eye."

I groaned loudly.

"He's not my boyfriend!" I exclaimed, reliving a moment of middle school. John and Sherlock just laughed at my exasperation, which simultaneously pissed me off and lightened my mood.

"PAY YOUR PARKING TICKETS!" Donovan shouted from the other side of the one-way window.

"I'M SAVING UP FOR COMIC-CON!" the accused shouted back at her, clad in his Captain America T-shirt (_oh, the irony, _I thought) and Avengers baseball cap.

I'd decided to approach Lestrade about ending the interrogations and trying some new tactics.

I texted him: _Hey, let's go out for coffee today. _

Not a few seconds later my phone received the reply: _Meet you outside at 12:30._

At 12:30pm, the two of us snuck out of work and took Lestrade's car to the nearest teashop, which turned out to be more modern and coffee shop-like than the quaint little place Sherlock and John had taken me to on my first day. This modern teashop looked more like a Starbucks in New York to me, which I loved upon first sight.

After waiting in line, I ordered my favorite Café Mocha and Lestrade ordered some fruit tea. Of course when I spoke my order I got a weird look from the barista and I assumed my accent had taken her off guard.

_Wow, shocker. _

After getting our drinks, we sat down at a table furthest away from everyone else.

"Man, I can barely keep my eyes open," Lestrade murmured after taking a long sip of his tea.

"Should've gotten coffee," I said loftily, gesturing to my lidded paper cup that emitted a small line of steam through the drinking hole.

Lestrade shook his head and grimaced.

"I can't drink that stuff," he said. "Too bitter."

I laughed.

"You know you can use creamer and sugar, right?"

Lestrade shrugged.

"I prefer tea. Wakes me up better… though this crap isn't doing anything for me."

I smirked and took a long swig of my coffee. The sweet, chocolate flavor brought my taste buds to life and the caffeine kick started my brain.

"Maybe I should've gotten coffee," I heard Lestrade mutter, obviously seeing how much I was enjoying mine.

I smiled and put my cup down. I sighed and ran a hand through my hair; time to pop the question.

"Hey, Lestrade-,"

"Nicole, call me Greg, honestly," Lestrade insisted.

"Sorry, force of habit," I said. "Anyway, _Greg, _umm…" I trailed off, not knowing where to start.

_I mean, _Greg_ is my employer, how do I ask him to change what we're doing? I don't wanna piss him off or anything. _

"Are you alright?" he asked, his brows furrowing in concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but…" I took a breath. _Just say it already! _"I think… we need to change what we're doing. At the police station, I mean. All these interrogations and background checks… it's not doing anything for us. All it's doing is making people stressed – even you and Sherlock had a fight."

Greg nodded slowly. His black eye was nearly healed but it was still discolored on his eyelid and below his eye.

"I get what you're saying… but what else are we doing to do?"

I let out a breath and ran another hand through my long, brunette hair.

"I dunno," I murmured. "Maybe just… sit and wait for something to happen? Maybe Moriarty will see we've stopped trying to track him down and… just do something? I dunno, seemed to work for the Joker. He just blew up hospitals and stuff when he got bored."

Lestrade – whoops, Greg – smirked at my poor movie reference.

"Well, I suppose it's all we've go now."

He took a large gulp from his fruit tea.

_Oh good, this was easier than I thought, _I inwardly sighed in relief.

"Still nothing," Greg muttered in irritation, giving his cup a disappointed look.

I couldn't stop myself from giggling.

"Should've got coffee," I said in a singsong voice.

Greg looked up and tried to glare at me but his face broke out in a smile. He picked up his lidded paper cup and held it aloft.

"To doing nothing."

I picked up my coffee cup and clinked it with his.

"And to being bored."

We both drained our drinks. We sat in silence for a moment, trying to feel more awake.

"Hey, Nicole," Greg began uneasily—

_Bloop, bloop _went my phone.

"Sorry, hold on," I said, fishing out my phone. I turned it on and saw I got a new text message from a number I didn't recognize.

It read: _Hickory dickory dock. _

I sat in silence, staring at the message. _What the hell? _

"What?" Greg asked.

I turned off the screen.

"Nothing," I said. _Must be somebody's idea of a stupid joke. _

My phone went off just as I was putting it back in my pocket.

"Geez, somebody wants your attention," Greg joked, though there seemed to be some kind of disappointment in his tone. I just smirked as I pulled out my phone.

I checked my messages and saw another text from the same number.

_The mouse ran up the clock, _it read.

"Somebody's just trying to prank me," I assured Greg. He nodded in understanding and got up to throw away his cup.

I didn't even get to put my phone back in my pocket before it went off again.

Now I was pissed off.

I checked it, feeling anger heat my cheeks.

_The clock struck one and out he run, hickory dickory dock, _the text read.

Then it dawned on me. _Is this… a Mother Goose poem?_

Above the text message, my phone time read 12:58.

_Wait a minute. This is too precise. _

My heart started to pound. Sherlock had told me Moriarty was known for throwing puzzles at you when you least expected it.

_The clock struck one and out he run…_

Greg sat back down, saying something about the weather.

My phone went off again and I checked it immediately. This text said: _If I were you, I'd make like a mouse and get out of there. –JM _

My heart plummeted. _Oh, my God. _

"Greg, we have to go," I said suddenly.

"What?" he asked but I ignored him.

I stood up and flashed my police badge.

"EVERYONE GET OUT OF HERE NOW!" I shouted. When none of them moved I flashed my gun at them. "NOW!"

Everyone got up immediately and started running out the door. The baristas hopped over the counter and joined the crowd, casting me nervous glances.

I grabbed Greg's arm and dragged him toward the door.

"What's going on?" Greg shouted, resisting my attempts to pull him.

"There's a bomb in here!" I shouted back.

Greg ran along side me as we hurtled out of the teashop. We crossed the sidewalk and my foot touched the asphalt of the street –

I felt myself go airborne and heard a loud echo in my ears and felt heat tingle against my skin. My hair whipped around my face for a moment and then a hard surface met my face with a harsh thud.

My whole body ached and my skin tingled and stung. My ears rang loudly and I couldn't decipher sounds. Colors exploded behind my eyelids.

I opened my eyes a little and saw blurred colors running past me against blurred browns, whites, and greys.

A big blur covered my vision, all brown and white. I felt a light touch on my face and a murmuring of words. My ears kept ringing loudly, so I squinted my eyes in an effort to make it stop.

I felt a hard, gravelly surface beneath my hands. The ringing went down a little and I heard screams and loud, authoritative shouts.

A whisper entered my ear, "Are you bored now?"

A low laugh bordering insanity and cruelty echoed in my ears. Then it was gone.

Thundering footsteps came up to me and I heard, "Nicole, can you hear me? Speak, can you hear me?"

It was Sherlock.

"Sherlock," I murmured, my head throbbing. "I… I found him…"

"She's badly burned, she needs to go to a hospital _now_," came John's voice, authoritative and commanding.

"No… I found him…" I murmured into the asphalt.

_I'm burned… it hurts… _

The whisper echoed in my head.

_Are you bored now?_


	7. Remembering and Recovering

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello! I've decided to update this story every Sunday (anytime within the day, so check regularly) so expect a new chapter then. :) Thank you all for waiting! :)

"_Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock," a voice cooed. _

_A face flashed in front of me and then it was gone. _

_ "The clock struck one, and down he run," the voice continued from somewhere._

_It laughed horribly. The face came back into focus, its light brown eyes wide and its mouth wide with neglected teeth and pale skin. Insanity danced in the light brown eyes and cruelty poured out of its mouth like coiling snakes. _

_ "If I were you, I'd make like a mouse!" He howled with laughter. _

I woke with a jolt. The environment around me was hazed and blurred but quickly turned black again when a sharp pain stabbed me on the side of my face and on my arm. My slow brain realized that it had commanded my eyes to squint against the pain, so I slowly opened them and let them adjust.

An open window stood across from me, its white curtains billowing from the wind. The light green wallpaper gave me a dose of déjà vu and the cold air blew in and chilled me to the bone. I shivered and fire shot up my arm and face again. My head hammered with pain, but it was easy to ignore if I focused on the pain in the side of my face and my arm.

I moaned. A shuffle of feet came about and they approached me.

"Good morning," a familiar voice greeted me.

I didn't turn my head because of the pain. I searched my mind for why the voice was familiar. _Who is this?_

"How're you feeling?" the voice asked again with a methodical air. It was a man and by his tone he seemed friendly. _Is he someone I know? Or a doctor? _

I blinked rapidly, trying to jog my memory.

"Nikki, can you turn your head?" the friendly man asked.

_Nikki. I remember that nickname. Only one person called me that… a doctor…_

"Doctor Who," I sputtered suddenly. I turned my head ever so slightly and saw…

_John! John Watson! John Watson's face! _

A smile spread across my face and relief flooded my body.

"John," I said, feeling the name on my lips. It felt friendly and safe and real.

He smiled back but his forehead was creased with worry. His light blue eyes shone brightly and slightly bloodshot.

"Your concussion is worse than I'd thought," he told me, his calm tone not matching his features. "At least you're able to recover your memory quickly. That's an upside."

"What happened to me?" I asked, finding the memory of the past blurry and hazy. "Where am I?"

John sighed, his forehead creasing further.

"Well, you're at Sherlock's place. Sherlock is talking with Mycroft outside about, well, what happened to you. You've been out cold for a day and Mycroft just now got here."

"Mycroft," I murmured, trying out the name. It came out sour on my tongue and my memory jogged to life. The calculating man who studied me like…

_Like how? Ah yes;_ _like a specimen under a microscope. _

And to top it off, I believe he'd developed something like a crush on me. _Wonderful. _

"Your burns are second-degree," John was saying, "but there aren't many of them. Just on your face and right arm. Should heal completely within two weeks or so."

I looked down at my arm and saw tightly wound gauze where my bicep would be. Indeed, I felt significant pain on that area and on my face; a burning, tingling sensation that, much like a swarm of bees, delivered a powerful sting if tampered with.

"Damn," I muttered. "I'm a mess."

John shrugged.

"Well, you definitely were before but I took care of you. But, don't worry, you'll be fine." He smiled at me, though the crease of worry in his forehead never smoothed out. Clearly, John had his worries.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in," John called absentmindedly.

A figure entered, clad in a nice navy blazer and dress pants and a white undershirt. His dark, curly locks hung haphazardly about his face, as if he had neglected to wash his hair recently.

The man seemed to survey the room for the quickest of moments and then saw me. His face remained a mask, but his eyes spoke up a storm. They were a hurricane of stress and worry, something that boggled my concussion-addled mind. I didn't remember seeing this man before. _Has he looked differently before? _

The strange man strode towards me and knelt down and started asking a lot of questions about my current health, which I answered as well as I could. Following behind the strange, curly-haired man was another man whose face was chiseled out of ice.

The ice man cast his eyes to me and studied me like…

_Oh, so this is Mycroft. _

His eyes were hard as they studied me, showing no emotion or care. I stared back at him, looking for any life in those icy eyes.

The curly haired man touched my bandaged arm and I let out a yelp of pain and turned to glare at him. He mumbled an apology and I glanced back up at the ice man.

His back was turned to me, suddenly interested in the trinkets on the mantle at the far side of the room.

I looked back at the curly haired man, trying to remember who he was. He spoke hurriedly and his voice seemed uncertain.

_No, I didn't know this man. This must be someone new. A friend of John, maybe? What did John say his name was again? _

"What's," I started but finding my breath to be limited. So I took a deep breath and continued, "…What's your name again?"

The curly haired man stopped fussing at John and stared at me. He turned back to John muttered something; I picked up the words, "concussion… than I thought." John seemed to whisper something back that contradicted the initial suggestion, so the strange man turned back to me and said his name slowly.

_Sherlock Holmes. _

_That rang a bell. Sherlock Holmes… Mr. Holmes? No, not that… _

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock Holmes was saying, his eyes examining me as my brain chugged away slowly.

_Whoa, hold the phone. Detective? …Wait! Detective!_

"Ah, Detective A-Hole, it's been too long," I quipped, smiling.

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and John smirked in a way someone would when recalling a past memory. In fact, my past memories with John and Sherlock started to breathe with life again and filled my brain. Relief flooded my veins; I was going to be okay.

"Alright, orientation is done with," Sherlock began, moving on to the next order of business. Mycroft turned back around to his brother (_they're brothers, right? Yeah I think so… No, wait! …Yeah, they are. I don't know why I hedged) _expectantly.

"Moriarty has gone too far," John said from beside Sherlock. "First he attaches bombs to people – and _me – _then he forces you into committing suicide, and then he burns our friend!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"I see it clearly now," he murmured. "Moriarty said he'd burn me before he'd kill me."

"And what does that have to do with this?" Mycroft asked condescendingly from the mantle across the room.

I couldn't see this because of my position so I listened. Mycroft sounded irritated, or maybe even stressed out and Sherlock's response only mirrored his brother.

"It means, _brother mine," _Sherlock spat, "that either I misinterpreted Moriarty's intentions or he caved to his potential to be changeable."

Silence fell over the room to the point where my breathing was too loud. Suddenly the sound of heels clomping on stairs echoed into the room. The door creaked open and the sound of heels stopped.

"How is she, John?" the voice of a woman demanded. "Has the poor creature woken up yet?"

"Right over there," John said. He must gestured to me on the couch, for the woman clomped over to me until she was in my sight.

She was a short, older woman with short light brown hair and a cheery complexion amidst facial wrinkles. Her light eyes twinkled with delight as they made contact with mine and her face dissolved into a brilliant smile that made my heart feel ten pounds lighter.

_Mrs. Hudson, _I knew immediately. I remembered being fond of her and how she'd always been so kind to me every… _Sunday? Saturday? Eh, either of those. _

"Oh, thank goodness!" she said happily. "Alive and well! How're you feeling, dearie? Do you want something to eat? You must be famished, you slept all day yesterday!"

As if on cue, my stomach unleashed a hungry growl.

"Yeah," I said, then added quickly, "please."

Mrs. Hudson nodded with a bright, satisfied smile.

"I'll fix something right up for you! Some tea, too?"

"Coffee, if you have it."

"Oh, dearie, I only have tea."

"That's fine, then."

"Don't you worry, I'll go out and buy some coffee for you."

I shook my head a little, though it stung.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, it's fine, I'll take tea."

"Oh, but the store's just -, "

"_Mrs. Hudson, please leave the room,"_ Sherlock shouted in obvious irritation.

Mrs. Hudson scurried out of my sight and down the stairs without another word.

The room fell silent again and I suddenly wished Mrs. Hudson had left her cheeriness with her to fill the hopeless silence.

"What are we going to do?" I murmured from where I lay on the couch. "Endless background checks and investigations did absolutely nothing. All that hard work…" I trailed off, feeling the weight of stress on my chest.

"There is nothing else _to _do," Mycroft said quite plainly. "All we can do is just wait. Any move we make will result in retaliation from Moriarty."

"We can't just stand around and wait for him to show up," John argued. "We need a plan at least. If we're going to wait, we need something to meet him up with. Like establishing a meeting place with back up policemen around the perimeter."

I stared out the window at the bright sunlight pouring in. People milled about outside, concerned about their normal lives. I felt so envious of them.

"No, we need something more discreet. If we bring in the police Moriarty will slip away. The police aren't smart enough to track him down effectively, why do you think we were called to this case in the first place?"

I assumed he was speaking to John, so I kept silent. Besides, my face hurt so talking was painful. A line of gauze was taped on the side of my face; I could only imagine how my skin looked now.

The conversation droned on with voices rising on occasion but no progress being made. I dozed off quickly and was awoken by someone carefully prodding my bad arm.

It was Sherlock. He handed me my phone, which was blinking a signal of an incoming text. There was a bowl of untouched vegetable soup on the table and a cup of tea.

I glanced at the window. It was dark now, the stars winking at me.

"So, is there a game plan?" I asked him.

Sherlock gazed out the window, looking discontented with the view.

"Hardly. The game is on, but in what direction, I know not." He laid a gentle, affectionate hand on my shoulder for a moment and then disappeared from view.

I unlocked my phone and saw a text from someone named Greg. It was sent around two hours ago.

_Hey, how're you feeling? I meant to come over today but I was caught up with work. Text me tomorrow if you're feeling up to it. – Greg _

I smiled at the text unconsciously. _Who is Greg? Greg, Greg, Greg… nope, not ringing a bell. Did he have a last name? Greg What? Smith? No, that doesn't sound right. Greg…Travis? Young? Lee? McKellar? _

I sifted through last names in my head and came up with nothing. I heard footsteps in the kitchen, so I called out to Sherlock.

"What?" he answered back, sounding exhausted and annoyed.

"What's Greg's last name?"

There was a moment of silence before he answered, "Lestrade."

I remembered him instantly: A man in his mid-thirties with grey-brown hair and brown eyes. He had a nice laugh and we went out to go get coffee daily, I think.

_Are we dating? No, probably not. His text would've had something like "hey babe" or "how're you doing, beautiful?" Why aren't we dating? Is he married? I can't remember. _

I was about to ask Sherlock if Greg Lestrade was married, but I stopped myself. I decided that I should just find out for myself instead of arousing suspicion and causing drama.

_I'll just see if he has a ring on his ring finger, that'll be a quick and easy answer. _

Sherlock strode into the room with a glass of water and a container labeled "Ibuprofen"_. _

"Take one pill tonight and one in the morning," he instructed me, setting the water down on the table beside me. "Or else you'll be in a lot of pain."

I nodded obediently and took an Ibuprofen pill. I leaned back again and closed my eyes and listened to Sherlock's footsteps on the floor until his bedroom door opened and closed softly.

Silence crept back into the room, but this time it was nicer. It wasn't an awkward silence, but a peaceful quiet that put my hammering head and stinging skin at ease.

After a few minutes the pain in my head lightened and was just a dull buzz and the sting of my skin became a light tingle.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my mind was busy at work.

_So Moriarty did this to me. Why am I a target? What have I done to pose myself as a threat? I'm the seemingly intimidating native-New York American, why the hell am I taking the heat – literally – from this so-called consulting criminal? If he's intimidated by my accent then, well, that's just stupid. _

_Whatever the reason, this isn't over. I'll get him back for this. No negotiations or Mrs. Nice Guy. I'll go all New York on him; he won't even see it coming. _

Feeling soothed by my inner pep talk, my mind finally let sleep overtake me.


	8. Cat and Mouse Dance

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello fellow Sherlockians! I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to go up, I've had a very busy weekend with the school musical and homework and super fun stuff like that. Anyway, this chapter is shorter so perhaps I'll post Chapter 9 earlier this week - I dunno, maybe, we'll see :) Thanks again, ya'll, for waiting so patiently! Grab a Gala Apple and enjoy Chapter 8!

Feel free to write a review to ask me any questions you have and tell me your thoughts on the story/chapter! :D

Chapter 8

A knock at the door and a shuffle of footsteps roused me from sleep. The window across from me was closed with heavy rain pitter-pattering against the glass. I glanced to the table at my side and saw the lonely bowl of soup and water; I realized I was famished.

"Come in," came Sherlock's voice as the door pulled open.

A second pair of footsteps entered the room and another voice said, "Good morning, Nicole."

It was definitely familiar. I lifted myself into sitting position and carefully swung my legs around.

It was Greg Lestrade, clad in a light brown jacket, navy button-up shirt and dark denim jeans. His eyes shone brightly and he smiled, though it was a complicated mixture of pity and genuine joy.

"Good morning," I said amicably, though I was acutely aware that the gauze taped to the side of my face must've been startling to Greg Lestrade.

My head was starting to hammer again and my skin stung from the movement, so I took the cup of cold tea and downed another pill of Ibuprofen. I grimaced at the cold, herbal taste. _Man, I wish that were coffee. _

"How're you feeling?" he asked carefully, probably the fifth person to echo that question. Sherlock walked over to his chair, sat down, and retrieved his violin with an air of disinterest.

"I've been better," I said casually, tasting the soup with the cold spoon. The soup was a little too cold to be enjoyable, but I didn't want Mrs. Hudson's efforts to feed me to go to waste; she'd have a fit.

Greg Lestrade took off his jacket and laid it on John's couch. He sat down on the couch beside me and clasped his hands together. I smelled a waft of cologne from him; it was a nice, manly smell, like pine or something.

I glanced at him and my eyes caught something. A light blue cast covered his left forearm. And on the hand attached to that arm a gold ring glittered in the sunlight that poured into the room. My heart sank.

"What happened to you?" I asked, gesturing in the general direction of his arm and sounding way too callous. I meant it in a concerned way, but of course I failed at that. I couldn't look past the nice golden ring on his forefinger.

He glanced at his cast as if he'd forgotten about it.

"Oh, this? I broke a bone in my wrist when Moriarty blew up the teashop. I got lucky though – I landed on a car so it kind of cushioned my fall. Just a few bruises on my side, nothing bad."

"Must've been a pretty comfortable car," I joked with a fake smile.

He smirked, gazing at his cast.

"The most comfortable I've ever fallen on after a teashop explosion."

Sherlock was playing his mournful music in the background, making me feel like I was in a sad movie that makes everyone cry at the end, like _Toy Story 3_ or something.

_Get over it, Nicole, _I told myself as Greg Lestrade checked his phone when it went off. _You're just not meant to be in a relationship with anybody. What's wrong with you? You stay in London for two months and get all attached to everyone. C'mon, you know better than that. _

"Hey, Detective A-Hole," I called to Sherlock, putting my tough mask back on, "could you play something that doesn't make me want to bash my head against the wall?"

Sherlock looked over at me lazily.

"Probably not. Watching you bash your brains out against the wall would be far more interesting than this boring conversation."

I rolled my eyes at him and Greg Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock just narrowed his eyes at us for a moment and then went on mournfully strumming his violin.

"So, any news at the station?" I asked Greg.

He sighed dejectedly.

"Nothing. Moriarty was there right under our noses and left without a trace."

Frustration bubbled up inside me. I groaned loudly, running an agitated hand through my hair. Of course it was my bad arm so I yelled out in pain.

"Damn it!" I shouted, covering my face with my hands. Suddenly I was a volcano threatening to erupt; I took steady breaths to try to calm myself down but the fire and magma raged inside me relentlessly.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, calm and gentle. My breathing slowed a little and the guilt set in. The hand felt so natural yet forbidden to my touch.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, uncovering my face. Sherlock was staring at me in mild surprise, his bow hovering over his violin. I turned to Greg and saw his face creased with pain. "I'm just so sick of this."

I reached up and clasped Greg's hand to move it. He squeezed my hand for a moment and then let it free.

Sherlock studied us with interest. I looked at him as Greg's phone went off again and he winked at me suggestively. I rolled my eyes but my heart only sank lower.

"Sorry, we've got some cases going on at the station, but nothing concerning Moriarty," he muttered with fatigue.

The room was quiet for a moment –

"Well, we can't just sit around and mope, now can we?" Sherlock demanded suddenly. He sprung to his feet, his face and eyes lit up with inspiration and insanity.

"There's nothing else we can do," Greg said, looking up at Sherlock in confusion. "We've tried everything."

Sherlock's face broke into a wild grin.

"Not everything, Craig, not everything!" he exclaimed. He started to pace again, ruffling his hair as he walked; I remembered seeing him do this same ritual another time.

"What we need to do," Sherlock said, pacing towards us, "is to take Nicole's original suggestion – beat Moriarty at his own game. But we took the wrong approach! Background checks and interrogations won't bring down a world-class criminal, as we've found out, no – he's too clever for that! So, we must do something un-clever to beat him at his own game of being clever, which in itself is a clever move."

"Are you suggesting we do something stupid and reckless in order to be clever?" I asked.

"Precisely!"

"Then I'm in," I said with a smile, feeling a spark of hope ignite within me.

"Same here," Greg said. "Should I involve the police?"

"No, leave them out of it," Sherlock answered automatically. "I've got a brilliant plan and they'll just mess it up with their innate stupidity."

I laughed and Greg scowled.

"What's this brilliant plan of yours?" I asked, intrigued yet still condescending.

Sherlock smiled, the joy of the game in his eyes.

"The game is on, Ms. Stryker," he announced. "And this time it is a game of cat-and-mouse, but this mouse shall be caught with a clever cheese."

"Are you the said clever cheese?" Lestrade asked almost derisively.

Sherlock smirked at his mockery.

"No, my dear Lestrade, I am the cat. Nicole shall be our cheese."

The following day, I was in the middle of another nap and another drowsy round of Ibuprofen (this time in John's old bedroom, now my own according to my recent deal with Sherlock) when my phone went off.

It was a text. I unlocked my phone screen and read it from an unknown number.

_Hello, Nicole. I request that you be my date to the upcoming cat and mouse dance. Do you accept? –MH_

The "Cat and Mouse Dance" was the code word for Sherlock's newest plan. All four of us – me, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade – were going to attend Mycroft's annual Christmas Ball at his private mansion near the parliament building. Everyone from the police station and other government branches were invited. It's not that Mycroft particularly enjoyed Christmas, as Sherlock revealed to me, but that he took great joy in conversing with his colleagues and further proving his superiority. At the Christmas Ball the cat and mouse game would commence, because how could Moriarty resist a huge gathering of all his foes in one building? It was fool proof.

I was about to text "Of course not" and send it without a second thought, when I did have second thoughts. Thoughts that brought to mind a particular golden ring.

I replied: _Sure. _Message sent.

The decision gave my stomach a sick twist but I didn't want to go alone particularly. Honestly, I'd rather go with Mycroft than risk getting asked by creepy Anderson. I laid my head back on my pillow and sighed. Either the Ibuprofen was wearing off or Mycroft was already giving me a headache.


	9. Embracing the X Chromosomes

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you so much to all who read my story and review, ya'll are soooooo amazing and awesome! I hope you enjoy Chapter 9, and let me know in a review who you're rooting for: Lestrade or Mycroft. I'm just curious! ;)

November rolled in along with the heavy, nonstop London snow. The air was constantly chilly to the point where I had to borrow Sherlock's heavy coat whenever I ventured into the winter snowstorm alone.

On the bright side, the burnt skin on my face and arm healed nearly completely. It was a distinct pink color in contrast to my pale skin, but healthy and no longer tender to the touch.

Sometime around the second week, I was informed by the New Scotland Yard via email that my services at the station were only necessary upon request, since I'd emailed them earlier saying I was taking up a job with Sherlock as my boss.

From then on and through Thanksgiving, Sherlock and I endeavored on many cases together. These cases ranged from schizophrenic people claiming to see ghosts to seemingly normal people attempting to get away with secret and clever murders. The thrill of the game set my blood on fire each time and it reminded me of my old police work in New York City. Sometimes I'd forget that I was doing this work an Atlantic Ocean away from home until I'd see a cab drive by on the left hand side of the road or see a restaurant sign say, "Fish and Chips half off!"

Of course Sherlock got on my last nerves on every case, from confusing me by speaking words that I've never heard of to taking a separate cab "to visit his mind palace" and leaving me alone on the street to hail my own (which wasn't that bad but it sucked when _I _was the one who hailed the cab Sherlock took for himself). But the cases were so much fun that I just gritted my teeth and encouraged myself to take the high road.

Meanwhile, I stopped my daily coffee meet-up with Lestrade. If he really was married then I wanted to cut off all communication with him before any kind of drama arose. Besides, I was busy with Sherlock's daily adrenaline-pumping cases so I didn't have time for a quick coffee break – literally, I don't know how John kept up with all of the work in the past.

_Just a lapse in judgment, Nicole, _I would tell myself countless times whenever Lestrade crossed my mind. _It's all right, just get over it and move on. It's not that hard, you can do it. You're better off by yourself, anyway; something you're used to, the status quo. Just stick with that. _

I said that to myself so often that I actually convinced myself that it was true. But that took some time, especially with Greg texting me every day throughout November with a "what's up" or "want to get some tea later?" Sometime around the first week of December, the texts arrived less often until they eventually stopped.

One chilly evening in the second week of the Christmas month, Sherlock and I were sitting by the fireplace, sipping tea and I, of course, was draining my second cup of coffee (decaffeinated, of course). Sherlock sat strumming his violin while I listened to Muse on my iPod, idly watching the fire crackle and spit sparks into the chimney. The song Feeling Good was halfway through and it set my mind at ease like nothing else. We'd gone through a very long and exhausting case today that consisted of catching a serial killer who had a knack of hiding in the smallest nooks and crannies in London; that of course involved quite a lot of running, so Detective A-Hole and I couldn't move our legs for crap.

A loud couple of knocks rapped upon the door. I heard Sherlock groan through my music and say, "_Now_ what?"

He got up unsteadily, stumbled a little, and went to answer the door. I paused the Muse song with reluctance as well and turned to see who it was.

To my happy surprise, John Watson stepped in, smiling from ear to ear. Sherlock's face instantly broke into a warm smile – something that seemed alien on his face – and embraced John in a hug.

"My turn!" I said and we embraced in a big hug. He'd been gone for a while since his wife had become very pregnant and fat. His arrival was unannounced and I wondered where his wife was.

As if on cue, a woman quite large from pregnancy walked carefully into the room. Her blue eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of our reunion; her bright blonde hair provided a pretty contrast to her bright blue eyes and her smile lit up the room. Her presence emanated friendliness; I was immediately put off by it.

"Sherlock!" she said, walking to him with her arms spread wide. "It's been too long!"

They hugged, Sherlock somewhat gingerly because of her stomach, and they separated. John's wife turned her overly bright smile to me and it occurred to me that she had symmetrical dark spots on her face. Her face seemed a little swelled and patches of purple sat beneath her beautiful eyes. I started to wonder if she was ill.

"Hi, I'm Mary, John's wife. Nicole, is it?" she asked, extending a welcoming hand towards me. I hesitated then shook her hand reluctantly.

"Yeah," I said, then added not too callously, "uh, nice to meet you."

She beamed at me and took her hand back to support her enlarged stomach.

"John's told me a lot about you. A New York City detective, how exciting! I've been there before. It's a beautiful city, isn't it?"

I smirked, suppressing a sting of homesickness.

"Yeah, it sure is." _Besides crowded streets, lots of crime, and air pollution…but still… its home. _

I had sudden images of my old coworkers flash through my mind: Juan Perez, my closest friend on the force and Mr. Briggs, my boss.

_ "The difference between you and me," _Juan would always say, _"is that I make this look good." _Halfway through he'd slide on his sunglasses and give me an I'm-too-cool-for-you straight face. It made me laugh every time.

Then Rocky when he was a puppy… _He was such a rowdy little thing, but he was a sweetheart. He was only eight years old… I only left him alone for a few hours…_

"Nicole?" Mary's voice broke through my train of thought.

"Huh, what?" I asked, snapping back into the present.

Sherlock chuckled.

"She zones out often," he whispered to Mary loud enough for me to hear.

"Hah, funny," I said, putting on my mask.

Sherlock smirked and walked back to the fireplace and sat in his usual chair. Mary just smiled amicably at me; I was finding it harder to not like her and that pissed me off a little.

"Hey I was wondering if you'd like to go dress shopping with me for the… what is it, _Cat and Mouse Dance?_ What is _with_ that name?"

"It's the code name, dear," John explained for probably the umpteenth time.

Mary just waved him off and made her way to my chair by the fireplace. She plopped down, looking exhausted. Her stomach seemed to be an inconvenient lump, making her slump in the chair.

"I'd love to go," I said, feeling somewhat obliged by her fatigued state. I perched myself on the arm of the chair Mary sat in and forced a friendly smile.

Mary flashed me a real smile.

"Oh, great! I know all these great stores, they've got the prettiest dresses you'll ever see! I was thinking about taking Molly with us, would that be alright with you?"

_Geez woman, I hardly know you, _I thought.

"Molly who?" I asked, confused.

Mary turned to Sherlock in mock anger.

"You haven't introduced Nicole to Molly yet?"

Sherlock glanced up and mirrored my confusion.

"No, why does that matter?"

Mary feigned offended shock by placing a hand above her chest and staring wide-eyed at him.

"_Why does it matter?_" she repeated incredulously. "Of course it matters! A girl needs girl friends, especially if she's new in town. C'mon, Sherlock, you should know that."

Sherlock shrugged without care.

"I assumed she was fine with John and me."

I nodded in agreement. But Mary shook her head in defiance.

"No, she needs some girl friends." John's wife, whom I unwillingly liked already, glanced up at me. "Don't worry, hun, Molly and I will show you around town and get you properly used to everything."

I forced another smile, though I was dreading that. _But I don't even like dresses._

"Sounds like fun," I said, the fakeness slipping through.

I knew Mary heard it when she smiled less genuinely; but, hey, she ought to know that I'd rather repeatedly bang my head against a wall than go dress shopping.

"Mary, dear," John asked from the fireplace where he stood, "do you think you're really well enough to go shopping all day?"

Mary snorted in derision.

"It's not going to be all day, just a few hours to find some cute dresses!"

John sighed in exasperation.

"You say that every time but it always ends up being a full day."

Mary shrugged, which looked odd with her enlarged stomach.

"You can't stop a girl from shopping, dear, you should know that."

So the next day John picked me up from 221B Baker Street and drove Mary and I to the mall deeper in the heart of London. Mary and I met up with Molly whose last name I learned was Hooper. As we went in several stores, I quickly realized Mary and Molly were far more excited about trying on dresses and examining the different styles and colors than I was. They picked up on my lack of enthusiasm and resolved to pick out dresses for me to try on. I protested, but they weren't going to let me get off that easy.

"C'mon, Nicole, just try on this nice blue one," Molly insisted with puppy-dog eyes, holding up a silk blue tube dress that only one sleeve. I pictured myself in it and inwardly cringed; I hardly thought I had the figure for _that_ kind of dress.

"How about something less… clingy?" I suggested, cringing a little.

Molly groaned with mock frustration.

"Honestly, Nicole, you have a good figure-," I outwardly scoffed at that, "—you should try to show it off a little."

I looked down at my 2011 Muse _The Resistance _tour shirt, black denim jeans, and black laced-up combat boots. I shrugged; this was my style, I'd always dressed like that. I was sure Molly didn't approve of my unkempt, brunette and blonde-streaked hair; I simply didn't have the patience to straighten or curl it, so I just let it be the way it was meant to be: wild.

Mary walked up to us with an armful of various dresses. It was a miracle that she could carry so many while simultaneously carrying a baby inside of her.

"She's right," Mary said in a singsong tone. "You aren't going to look like that forever. Embrace it now or forever hold your peace."

I grumbled in defiance but took the blue dress from Molly, just to get them off my back.

"Take these, too!" Mary said, shoving them into my arms and nearly throwing me backwards. "They'll look so cute on you."

I said a muffled, "Okay," and staggered to the dressing rooms.

I tried on all the dresses but was never satisfied. I'll admit, I looked good in some of them – I'd underestimated my figure, so Molly and Mary were right about that. But if the dress fitted, then I wouldn't like the color and vice-versa. After several tries I came across the blue tube dress. I picked it up and held it in front of me. It was very nice, I had to admit, but it seemed a bit… edgy.

"Well, here goes nothing," I muttered to myself. I pulled myself into the dress with some difficulty. I examined myself in front of the mirror and realized something.

I looked _really good_ in tube dresses! Who knew!

I twisted and turned, looking at myself from all angles. The dress's one sleeve gracefully arced up and covered my shoulder, leaving the other shoulder exposed but not too much that it showed anything that I knew must be covered. The hem of the dress ended right above my knees, making it short but not too short in a scandalous way. And on top of all that, it was the most comfortable dress out of all the ones I'd tried on.

I couldn't contain my smile; it was perfect.

_Alright, perhaps I was too pessimistic about this whole dress shopping thing, _I inwardly confessed, smiling like a fool in front of the mirror. _I've never looked so… pretty. _

The old song, "_I feel pretty, oh so pretty_," starting playing in my head.

I stepped out of the dressing room to show Mary and Molly who were trying on their own dresses.

Mary stepped out in a beautiful purple dress that hugged her figure well but not to the point where it showed her enlarged stomach too much. She saw me and gave me a smug smile.

"Am I right, or am I right?" she asked rhetorically.

I laughed, glanced down at the dress, then back up at her.

"It's perfect."

Molly stepped out in a black sleeveless tube dress and squealed when she saw me.

"It's perfect!" she exclaimed.

"So is yours," I said. It was true; black was definitely her color and her figure was a lot better than mine. Her dress was shorter than mine by ending right below her butt, but it didn't look scandalous on her – just flattering.

"Ladies," Mary began with regal finality, "unsheathe your credit cards."

I didn't get back to 221B Baker Street until late at night. Mary, Molly, and I had gone shopping for more things we didn't need and then saw two movies at the movie theater – whoops, the _cinema, _as they call lit here. So at ten o'clock pm John picked up Mary and I after we bade Molly farewell.

John's car pulled away as I walked up to 221B and let myself inside. The apartment – _flat, _geez I keep forgetting that – was abuzz with life. There was clanking in the kitchen and Mrs. Hudson's voice and Sherlock's violin mournfully sang from upstairs.

I smiled, unable to shake off the feeling that this did feel like home, at least a little. I ascended the stairs and walked into the main room. To my surprise, Sherlock wasn't playing his violin but instead was waltzing around the room with an invisible partner, the music playing out of an iHome with a white iPod Classic sitting upon it.

I stopped and stared at him, whom hadn't noticed me walk in. He spun on one foot and stood facing me; he stopped dancing.

"You told me you'd be home at six," he deadpanned.

"Yeah, sorry about that," I said, not very sorry at all. "Mary, Molly and I were busy getting in touch with our X chromosomes."

Sherlock just shook his head.

"They're going to change you into a posh little female, Nicole Stryker, mark my words. It'd make your American colleagues cringe."

I rolled my eyes at him.

"Hilarious. Anyway, what are you doing?" I asked, setting my bags down on the couch.

"Practicing for Mycroft's ball this weekend," he explained as if it were normal. "Speaking of that, are you well acquainted with the fundamentals of ballroom dancing?"

I snorted in derision.

"Hun, I was on the Manhattan Police force and I was single. What do you think?"

"People have their hobbies," Sherlock suggested. "But anyway, you should get acquainted with it as soon as possible. I can't let you embarrass yourself in front of the whole British government when you dance with Mycroft."

My blood ran cold.

"Wait, I'm actually _dancing _with him? In front of tons of people?"

Sherlock gave me an incredulous look, then an exasperated one.

"Yes, of course! What did you think you were going to do?"

"I dunno! I've only ever been to parties in college! We just danced until we were too drunk to stand up!"

Sherlock groaned loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He released his nose and fixed his glare on me.

"We might as well get started now."

I stared at him.

"Wait, like right now? Or now as in the next few days? It's only Wednesday, y'know, we have until Saturday…"

"Nicole, come here. I'm going to teach you the simplest one first: the waltz."

He picked up the iHome remote and pressed a button. The music resumed, sounding vaguely like Mozart or something.

"Mozart?" I guessed.

"Johann Strauss Junior," Sherlock corrected.

I nodded, though I didn't see why it mattered. The music seemed slow and sophisticated; the complete opposite of my music taste. But I held my tongue and let Sherlock teach.

"Alright," he began. He held out a hand in front of him and cupped it. "Grab hold of my hand."

Feeling incredibly awkward, I reached out and grabbed his pale hand.

"No, gently," he said, so I slacked my grip. "Better."

_I sincerely hate this, _I thought.

"Now, put your hand on my shoulder and I'll place mine on your waist."

_I really, really hate this. _

I reached up and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, keen to not make awkward eye contact. I felt his hand rest on my waist and I immediately felt smothered. There was a good space between us, which I was grateful for.

"Now, follow my instructions closely," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

"Whatever," I muttered.

"The man leads in the waltz, so when I take a step forward you take a step back."

I gritted my teeth, but obediently took a step back when Sherlock stepped forward with his left foot.

"Good," he said, though not sounding at all satisfied. "Now step with your other foot to the right."

I hesitated, and then did so.

"No, not so far! Just shoulder-width."

Inwardly cursing him, I took my foot back and extended out about shoulder length and then let it loudly thump on the floor.

"How graceful," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. He took an exasperated breath and continued, "Then you just bring your feet together when I do."

I mirrored his feet by bringing mine together.

"Is that it?" I asked hopefully.

"Not quite," he said, at which I groaned loudly. "Now I'm going to spin you and you'll take exactly six steps in a circle and then resume following my lead. During this I'll be repeating the previous steps."

"Oh, goodie," I muttered.

"Just shut up and spin," Sherlock snapped. He lifted his arm in which his hand held mine, and I spun clumsily around and took a few steps in a circle.

"That was four steps, it has to be six," Sherlock scolded.

"Does it matter?" I asked irritably.

"Yes, completely!"

I groaned loudly and broke away from him.

"This is so stupid! Can't I just embarrass myself instead? It's easier!"

Sherlock let out a sigh of exasperation and dragged his hands across his face.

"Nicole, I'm not going to let you embarrass yourself. Just finish this dance with me and then we'll be done, alright?" He sounded like he was the very brink of his patience, so I nodded and walked back to him.

He put his hand back on my waist, my hand on his shoulder, and our other hands clasped together.

The music repeated and we resumed our waltz. I stumbled a few times but after a little while I got the hang of it.

"One, two, three, four – five – six," I counted, hurrying the last numbers as I spun.

"No, it has to be graceful and in time," Sherlock insisted. He spun me again and I took smaller steps and made it to six when I stopped in front of him. "Better."

I smiled a little, feeling triumphant.

"Are we done now?" I asked with the whininess of a five year old.

Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, for now. We'll resume tomorrow morning with some other dance styles that you'll probably have to perform at Mycroft's ball."

I pretended to throw up chunks all over the floor.

"Ugh, why do these dances have to be so sophisticated? I mean, can't people just chat and then dance if they want to?"

"Yes, but then when they dance it must be proper dancing and not _twisking_ or whatever that new dance craze is."

I laughed loudly.

"You mean _twerking? _I might just do that at Mycroft's ball."

"If you do, you'll be shot on sight – by me," Sherlock promised, though ending with a joking smile.

I laughed as I picked up my bags.

"Goodnight, Detective A-Hole."

"Goodnight, Nicole."

I started making my way to my bedroom when Sherlock called after me. I stopped in the kitchen and turned back around and asked what he wanted.

"I've been wondering," he began, somewhat cautiously, "how come you have ceased communication with Lestrade?"

My heart bled from the inside like a stab wound.

"Did he hurt you?" Sherlock asked, suddenly protective. "I'll make him pay for that, I swear on my mother's—"

"No, Sherlock, he didn't do anything," I interrupted abrasively. "He just…"

_Damn, I really wanna tell him. Just to get it off my chest. _"He's… he's not who I thought he was, that's all."

Sherlock studied me with mixed perplexity and interest.

"How is he different than you thought?"

I sighed, feeling the weight of the pain I'd buried resurfaced in a moment.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't wanna talk about it, okay?"

I turned back around and started walking again.

"Nicole," he called again.

"What?" I asked with open frustration.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and then said, "If I may speak honestly, I know Lestrade to be a kind and frank man. If he has misled you or hurt you in any way, I can assure you that it was unintentionally. Perhaps, instead of bottling it up, you should… speak to him about it…perhaps." Sherlock looked awfully uncomfortable, staring at the ground and repeatedly shifting his feet as he spoke.

I smiled at his sudden compassion, though something told me it'd been there the whole time buried beneath other more pressing thoughts and agendas.

"Thanks," I said, "that really helps."

And with that, I headed into my bedroom. I set my bags down on the floor and pulled out my phone. With a big breath of bravery, I typed out a carefully worded text to Greg. After revising it several times, I sent this:

_ Hey Greg, it's Nicole. Sorry we haven't spoken in a while, I've been busy with Sherlock on his cases. Let's get together for coffee tomorrow and I'll pay for your tea. We need to catch up :) _

I smiled at my phone, feeling more whole than I had in several weeks. _If he's married, then we can still be friends. We'll make this work. _


	10. Let's Do This

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm so sorry this is a day late! I was busy this week with homework and other stuff and I just lost track of time! I hope ya'll enjoy this chapter, and thanks again for commenting in the reviews! I love reading the reviews, you guys are awesome! Just a heads up: more swearing in this chapter.

The alarm on my phone raised me from the dead of sleep around nine o'clock am. I groaned lethargically and picked up my phone, squinting against its harsh light. After silencing the alarm, I saw that I'd received a text during the night.

It was from Lestrade. My heart gave a happy jump and I sat upright in my bed prior to reading the text.

It read: _Hey Nicole. Sherlock can be a real asshole, huh? ;) Let's meet at the teashop near 221B just in case it blows up again, we'll have faster back up. See you at noon. Looking forward to catching up with you. – GL _

I smiled at the text, though inwardly scolding my feelings. _He's married. Suppress it, Nicole. _

I swallowed the excitement and pulled myself up out of bed. I walked like a zombie into the kitchen and started mindlessly pouring myself a cup of coffee from a pot that Sherlock always prepared for me in the morning.

I was raising the cup to my lips when a loud _BANG_ erupted right beside me. The coffee cup shattered in my hands, spraying coffee all over me.

I whipped around and saw Sherlock standing in the main room, fully dressed and holding a semi-automatic gun in his hand.

I gawked at him, fully awake.

"WHAT THE HELL!" I shrieked.

Sherlock calmly lowered the gun. His calmness sparked my anger to life and it spread from my core to my fingers; my hands clenched into fists.

"Don't drink that," he said simply.

"WHY THE HELL NOT?" I shouted at him, wiping my hands on my pajamas. "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU COULD'VE SHOT ME!"

Sherlock just sighed with the same nonchalance that was pissing me off even more.

"Nicole, the coffee isn't safe to drink because -,"

"WHY DID YOU SHOOT MY COFFEE? YOU KNOW NOT TO PULL ANY CRAP ON ME IN THE MORNING!"

"NICOLE!" Sherlock shouted back, silencing me. "Shut up! The coffee is mixed with human blood infected with disease."

My jaw actually dropped and the fire inside me intensified tenfold.

"WHY THE HELL-," I took an angry breath and made wild gestures from the coffee cup shards on the floor to the splattered coffee on the cupboards, "—IS THERE FREAKING HUMAN BLOOD IN THE COFFEE, SHERLOCK?"

"I was experimenting!" Sherlock explained as if it were obvious. "You know I do this."

I put my face in my hands. My hands smelled strongly of coffee.

"You may not want to sniff your hands," Sherlock warned. I quickly brought my face up and held my hands out.

"How contagious is this?" I asked, worry accompanying the anger.

"Not very, but just be careful. Here, I have some disinfectant here." He picked up a bottle of Purell and walked over into the kitchen. He squirted some of the Purell into my hands and I quickly rubbed them together.

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table and gazed at me.

"Um, sorry about that," he muttered awkwardly.

I just waved him off, still rubbing my hands together. I squirted more Purell into them and continued rubbing.

"Don' worry 'bout it," I said, very New York-like, "I shouldn't expect any different. Just hard to wake up to, that's all."

Sherlock smirked.

"Probably better than your alarm clock at waking you up."

I laughed. The anger started to fade; it felt nice.

"Yeah, no kidding."

Sherlock let out a breath and stared at the floor. He seemed tense, especially with this unnatural silence.

"You alright?" I asked warily.

He glanced up at me, apparently lost in thought.

"What? Oh, yeah. I'm fine."

I gave him a disbelieving look.

"I'm fine, Nicole, I promise," he assured me, putting on a smile. "I'm just worried you'll inevitably embarrass yourself during the waltz."

"Hey, we practiced last night, isn't that enough? I got it pretty well."

Sherlock shook his head.

"You were mediocre at best. Mycroft is highly skilled in dancing and you won't be able follow his lead."

I let out a breath of exhaustion. I was already 110% done with this day and it wasn't even noon.

"Oh, hey, I'm going to be gone at noon today," I said, remembering the morning text.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprised, furrowed in intrigue, and then rose again in knowing.

"Ah, you texted Lestrade last night."

I nodded, examining my coffee/diseased blood stained pajamas. The sun was pouring in through the open curtains and shining right on my pajamas, illuminating main room and the kitchen. The light highlighted Sherlock's dark curls and revealing the brown in them and it caressed the side of his face and illuminated his bright blue eyes. And right now those bright blue eyes were examining me like a specimen under a microscope and his smile was smug. He already knew what the text was about and how I'd reacted to it; I could sense it.

"Yes I did, and we're having coffee-slash-tea at noon. No comments are allowed from you, mister."

Sherlock snorted in derision.

"Can't we just get the marriage ceremony over with? What's with all this foreplay?"

I slapped him in the forearm playfully.

"Quit it. Now, are we doing these other dance techniques or what?" I asked, changing the subject as quickly as possible.

"Actually, I scheduled a case last night for this morning so we'll have to forfeit the dance lessons until later today or tomorrow."

I nodded, back to business.

"Alright, just give me an hour to shower and change clothes."

"Only an hour or I'm leaving without you," Sherlock warned, taking the pot of diseased coffee and dumping it down the sink. I was about to ask if that was hazardous when Sherlock suddenly said:

"You'd be wise to not tell Mycroft about your… _friendship… _with Lestrade. He may already know – he has eyes all over London – but don't broach the subject. He may be fit to burst and ruin our plans at the dance."

I looked at Sherlock inquiringly.

"Why would he get so mad? My plans are my own business."

Sherlock set the coffee pot down and looked at me with earnestness.

"I'm not sure," he admitted reluctantly, "but I know one thing for sure. He's never looked at anyone else like how he does with you." He took a breath, glanced at the floor to search for words, and the back up at me. "I advice that you tread lightly in this situation. I hate to admit it, but in desperate times like these my brother is a powerful ally that we can't afford to deal without."

I walked over to the teashop next door around 12:10pm. I assumed Lestrade wouldn't be on time so I didn't rush. I was right; the tables were all empty except for one table occupied by a couple mildly chatting over tea and scones.

The teashop was just as I remembered it four months ago. The red and white checkered table cloths, the vase with the little wilting flower sitting in dirty water, and the little silverware and pretty china were all sitting in perfect order on the small square tables.

I chose a table near the back and took off my coat and sat down.

The waitress came over to me and took my order –Café Mocha, of course – and walked away.

A few minutes passed and I began to wonder if Greg was going to show up at all. At 12:20pm, the door opened and cold winter air poured in. I looked up and saw Lestrade walking in, shivering from the cold. He saw me and came my way. I noticed he didn't seem particular excited to see me; his trademark bright smile was missing.

"Hey, Greg," I said awkwardly.

"Hi," he retorted, promptly picking up a menu and scanning it.

_Yeah, he's definitely pissed, _I thought with sinking guilt. I glanced at his fingers curled around the menu and saw the golden ring was missing. I was about to assume he just didn't wear it all the time, as some married couples do, but something itched inside me shouting, "_Ask him!" _

_Not now, _I told the itch. _That's way too early. I have to be cautious about this. _

Another awkwardly silent moment passed before Greg spoke.

"I'm getting the Caesar salad," he announced. "But I hear the Italian sandwich is pretty good."

His voice was flat and uninterested; he was just making small talk.

_We never make small talk,_ I thought with worry_. This is so unlike him._ I took a brave breath and penetrated the awkwardness.

"I'm just gonna come out and say it," I began. He looked up at me expectantly. "You're pissed at me, I know it, and you have good reason to be. I've been a shitty friend and I wouldn't blame you if you held a grudge – I probably would."

Lestrade shrugged in agreement, definitely looking like he was pissed off as he glanced to the side with feigned disinterest.

"But, I… I gotta tell you something," I said. He kept his gaze away, but he waited for me to continue. "…I was just unsure about… y'know… hanging out with you because… y'know, you're married and all, and I -,"

His head snapped towards me and his eyebrows furrowed.

"What?"

I hesitated, taken aback by his sudden interruption. "I said, I wasn't sure if I should hang out with you 'cause you're married, and I-,"

"I'm not married," he said, the disinterest gone and perplexity taking its place. "Who told you I was married?"

I was at a loss; I was so confused.

"But you were wearing a ring when you came to visit me that one time," I explained, feeling more and more unsure. "Like a wedding ring."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose in understanding and a ghost of a smile was on his face.

"Oh, I was wearing that old thing so I'd remember to take it down to a friend of mine who pays you for turning in old gold jewelry," he explained, and then added, "I got divorced about a year ago, if that helps."

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place and my cheeks burned hot red. _I'm such an IDIOT!_

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling completely idiotic and embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry, Greg, I thought you were married!" I insisted.

"It's fine, just a misunderstanding," he assured me, his features calm. Then he looked at me inquisitively and asked, "Why would it matter that I'm married?"

My heart dropped and my blood ran cold. _Oh, shit! _

So I stammered like an idiot.

"Oh, y'know, your wife may have been angry to see you hang out with me – I mean, I'm sure she was a wonderful woman and that she's not crazy like that – not that she's _crazy_ but I mean, she's not unrational – not _unrational_, per say, just not intelligent— I mean…!"

Greg just smiled knowingly, even a little coyly, at me so I just stopped talking and stared at my plate.

"I like you, too," he said quietly.

My insides felt all warm and fuzzy and my heart did flips inside my chest. I looked up at him and felt like I always did around him: safe and comfortable. I could be myself around him and he wouldn't judge.

"Do you want to go to the Cat and Mouse Dance with me?" he asked suddenly.

The fuzzy feelings inside died as quickly as they'd come.

I sighed and ran another hand through my hair.

"I can't," I said sadly. "Mycroft asked me a few days ago and I said yes."

Greg stared at me in bewilderment.

"_Mycroft?" _He asked.

I shrugged.

"He's got a bit of a crush of me," I explained, "but don't tell anyone I told you that. It might piss him off and that would be very bad."

Greg raised his brows in surprise, and then his brow clouded in… _disappointment? No… jealousy? Maybe… if so, that'd be the first time for me, _I thought.

"So, I guess I'll just have to steal a dance with you while Mycroft's back is turned," Greg suggested with a mischievous smile.

I laughed and agreed.

My skin was covered in goosebumps and I was sweating through my dress. Tonight was the night and I was terrified. My hands shook as I applied my makeup and curled my hair. Tonight was the night that Moriarty would come.

And I was supposed to distract him.

_How the hell am I supposed to distract a world-class consulting criminal?_ My mind kept asking over and over. I came up with no answer except: _I'll just have to wing it. _Which, of course, only made my hands shake more.

Sherlock and I took a cab over to Mycroft's mansion. The ride there was a blur in my nervous state. Sherlock was talking to me in soothing tones but I wasn't listening.

I'd never been more terrified in my life. I could die tonight, for all I knew.

The cab pulled up to the mansion, which was a mammoth building made entirely marble and wood. The nighttime sky was devoid of stars with all the shining headlights of cars shining in the front driveway. I got out of the cab with Sherlock and glanced around.

Government men and their wives and government women and their husbands were stepping out limos and fancy cars in extravagant suits and dresses. I felt terribly underdressed, despite the hours spent on makeup and my hair that I had tied into a cute side ponytail that cascaded down my shoulder in delicate curls. My eye shadow matched the gentle blue of my dress and my mascara was a pitch black in contrast to my usual dark brown.

Sherlock was quite dapper in a black suit and tie, his curly locks combed to a neat bundle of waves and curls. He glanced down at me and offered a weak smile; he was nervous, too.

I returned a fake smile and turned back towards the mansion as we made our way in.

_Alright, bitches, _I thought, trying to rally some good ol' Manhattan spunk. _Let's do this. _


	11. Think of Me

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here it is guys, the Cat and Mouse Dance has arrived! I hope ya'll like this new chapter and tell me your thoughts in the reviews! If anyone has any constructive criticism for character portrayal, lemme know in a review :) I want to mention that, since this story takes place after Season 3, I'll be portraying the characters as more dynamic (which means they change a little as the plot continues) but not so much as to stray from their personalities and quirks. Sit down, eat a dragon fruit, and enjoy Chapter 11! :D

Upon walking into the mansion, it suddenly occurred to me that there were at least over five hundred people attending this ball. That meant over five hundred people would be watching me dance with Mycroft.

My stomach twisted inside me and I felt my lunch rising up into my throat. I swallowed it back down painfully and tried to put on a calm mask. As long as I was only freaking out on the inside then I could still play the intimidating New Yorker card.

"This way," Sherlock said in a low voice, grabbing my arm and dragging me down a lighted hallway off to the side. The hallway was endless and its ceiling stretched towards the heavens and the walls were decorated with massive paintings and precise carvings in the wood. I saw a light pouring onto the marble floor from a distance and the flood of people were going towards it.

_That must be the ballroom. _

I received some sideways glances as I walked with Sherlock, most of those glances being derogatory smirks at my inferior blue tube dress. Some of the women wore black conservative tube dresses with straight necklines while many others wore long, flowing gowns of varying dark, wintry colors. They all looked like they were made of the most expensive silk, while mine was bought at the mall downtown and was only $50.

As Sherlock and I made our way into the ballroom, I was taken aback by the grandiose layout. There were tables scattered in an organized way in a semicircle around a marble dance floor that was currently teeming with people. From the entrance I could see the brilliant lights winking off of the wine glasses sitting daintily upon the white tablecloths. The chairs that sat around the circumference of the tables had elegant metal frames and glass inlaid in the open spaces made by the curling, twisting, and vine-like metal frames.

Sherlock took my hand and guided me to a table near the front. Each seat had a card with a name inscribed in graceful calligraphy. I found my card that said 'Nicole Stryker' and saw I was sitting in between Sherlock and Molly Hooper.

_Thank God, people I know, _I thought with relief. I'd feared I'd be randomly seated with government men and women out to take my money for taxes.

Not long after, John and Mary strode into the ballroom, John clad in his black tuxedo and black tie and Mary beautifully dressed in her purple gown that made her look like a pregnant goddess. She complimented me on my dress, makeup, and hair but I knew I couldn't compare to how elegant Mary looked.

Halfway through greetings, Greg and Molly walked in together side by side though not holding hands like John and Mary had. Or even Sherlock and I, but I had been so distracted by everything that if Sherlock hadn't held my hand I would've gotten lost amongst the great throng of government people. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't glad that Lestrade and Molly weren't holding hands.

Molly gushed over my dress and I tried my best to gush over hers. She did look beautiful in her short black dress but she seemed out of place since, as I observed earlier, all the other women were wearing longer and more flowing gowns. But I was out of place, too, so I let that judgment slide. Besides, I still wasn't _that_ interested in dresses. Just the tiniest bit more than a week ago.

Greg and I exchanged greetings and made pleasant small talk – not like the kind Greg made when he was pissed off at me, but the kind of small talk people make when they're waiting for something.

A stage was set up near the dance floor with a string quartet, two flutes, a clarinet, and two different types of saxophone. Another man ascended the stage; I assumed he was the singer. The singer tapped the microphone and asked everyone to take their seats; we did so.

My heart fluttered with anxiety. I had my phone in the little purse I was carrying and my touch was ready for the little vibration that would signify the dreaded text message… if it ever came.

My heart dropped. _What if Moriarty never shows up? What if he's left the country or something and is killing people and we have no idea?_ Then a horrible thought hit me. _What if he's in New York City? _

_Stop it, Nicole!_ I chided myself. _Keep a clear head; you're on duty. _

Mycroft Holmes stepped into the ballroom and received gentle applause – the kind someone would hear at a golf or tennis tournament. He introduced himself and thanked everyone for coming and encouraged (I could tell it wasn't genuine) everyone to dance at their leisure. Dinner would be served in the next hour and a half (_what! I can't wait that long!) _so he asked for patience. As Mycroft left the spotlight of the dance floor and made his way to prove his superiority over his colleagues a few tables over, I couldn't help but acknowledge he looked good in his black suit. He wore it with a dark red tie accompanied with a dark red handkerchief in his breast pocket.

_He's got style, I'll give him that one, _I thought with a smirk.

The orchestra struck up a tune and the singer started singing songs I'd heard before. In fact, the current one was Happy by Pharrell Williams; this one had been on the radio in the cab just twenty minutes ago.

"So, what do we do now?" I asked Molly who was sitting beside me. She shrugged honestly.

"I don't know," she said. "Sit and wait?"

I scrunched up my nose in distaste.

"I need to get up and move," I insisted. "I'm way too anxious right now. Do you wanna go dance with me?"

Molly immediately blushed and shook her head.

"No, thanks," she said quickly. "Not with so many people here. Maybe with close friends, but…"

"Aw, c'mon," I said, desperate to get my mind off of Moriarty. "Please? Just, like, two songs. Just two quick songs." I was already standing by now.

Molly let out a mock groan of frustration and got up. I smiled in triumph and led her onto the dance floor. We were one of the first ones, since most of the other party attendees were too posh to dance like idiots.

Molly and I jammed out to Happy, What You Know by Two Door Cinema Club, and Runaway Baby by Bruno Mars; we even danced with a few strangers, both men and women.

_Alright, I guess some government people know how to party, _I inwardly admitted while dancing alongside a woman who'd formerly given me a derogatory smirk in the hallway.

The singer stopped after the three songs and announced dinner was to be served in a few minutes. Everyone who was dancing took their seats and waited anxiously for the food to arrive. Sherlock's seat was empty; I assumed he was in the bathroom.

Meanwhile, I checked my phone for any dreaded text messages. The inbox was empty. I sighed with relief and anxiety.

"Nothing yet?" Molly asked beside me.

"Nope," I murmured. I turned off the screen and put the phone on the table. "I'm not sure if I'm happy about that or aggravated."

"Well, whatever happens was meant to happen," Molly said, attempting to reassure me but failing terribly. "That's what my mother always used to say."

"Thanks," I muttered, not very thankful at all. _What might happen is that I die tonight – is that how it's supposed to be? Hell no, not if I can stop it. _

Dozens of waiters entered the ballroom carrying at least a thousand steaming platters with silver dome covers. A waiter waltzed to our table, clad in black dress shirt and pants with a white apron. He even had a French-looking mustache and his curly dark locks were combed back –

_Wait. Hold on. _

I stared into the waiter's face and gasped. I wasn't the only one to notice either.

"Sherlock!" John whispered fiercely. "What the _hell _are you doing?"

He shushed us irritably.

"I'm undercover," he whispered, "Moriarty could be anywhere. We may not need to use Nicole as our cheese if I can find him fast enough. Everyone just _act natural._"

Of course we did the exact opposite. As Sherlock laid out our food, we all sat glancing around and twiddling our thumbs and awkwardly coughing.

"We're all doomed," Sherlock muttered, looking at us all in disappointment.

"Just shut up and find the psychopath," I snapped at him. "I want to live to have waffles and coffee tomorrow morning."

"Just be careful if you meet him," he advised me in a hurried whisper as he poured me a glass of wine. "Don't attack, don't taunt, just stand there and ask questions. Stall him and wait for me to come. Do you understand?"

I nodded, letting out a nervous breath.

"Good," he said, pulling back the wine bottle. He looked me earnestly in the eyes. His were filled with fear. "Nicole, please, _be careful_. And _do not_ underestimate him."

"No problemo, compadre," I stammered cheekily, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

Sherlock nodded and walked away much more hurriedly than as he'd come in. I grasped my glass of wine in two hands and took a long gulp.

The food was delicious and helped calm my nerves. I tried my best to not clean off my plate so I wouldn't get fatigued from overeating. The last thing I needed was to have slower reaction time while confronting Moriarty.

Everyone at the table engaged in their own conversations and left me out of them. I was fine with that because I was so nervous I couldn't think straight. I'd hunted down drug dealers and other mass criminals back in Manhattan, but this was different. This Moriarty guy broke into a prison, a bank, and museum singlehandedly and killed several people without even touching them himself. He was a world class criminal and I was the bait.

My palms were sweating and chills raced up and down my spine. My breath came out short and I'd taken one too many gulps of wine and was feeling dizzy.

I closed my eyes and in desperation prayed to God. _Please, God, _I prayed. _That's all I want right now. I want to be alive and breathing tomorrow. I want to see the golden pink of the sunrise over London. And I want to see Sherlock in his blazer and fancy pants, criticizing me for sleeping in again. And John and Mary with their wisecracks and sickening optimism. And Lestrade making me laugh and smile and Mycroft making me cringe and blush. And Molly gushing and recalling our fun memories earlier tonight. God, I finally have friends. Don't make me leave now. _

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and glanced up into Mycroft's face.

"Oh, hey," I said, kind of startled.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asked, his forehead creased in concern. Of course he was looking at me with his trademark analyzing look.

I nodded and forced a smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I insisted, "it's just… the wine. It's a bit strong for me."

Mycroft nodded. He knew the real reason but of course we couldn't speak of it with so many people potentially eavesdropping.

"It's the best in the market," he said. "It was aged for fifty years."

"Damn," I mused. "That's older than me."

A smile made its way onto his face. He gestured to the chair beside me that was Sherlock's.

"Mind if I sit?"

I shook my head and he took a seat. I glanced across the table and saw Greg eyeing us over the top of the wine glass he was sipping on. I looked back at Mycroft and forced another smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked out of the blue. "Since the accident, I mean."

"Just fine now," I replied. "The affected skin is still a bit pink and I get the occasional headache, but besides that I'm good as new."

He smiled in relief.

"That's good to hear."

There was a brief silence but luckily I filled it before it got too awkward.

"So, um, how's the British government and stuff? Any new scandals?"

Mycroft just smirked at me.

"Plenty of scandals, of course," he said as if it were obvious. "And the government is fine, aside from the fact that I'm surrounded by idiots."

That made me laugh.

"Hey, I feel ya on that one. Maybe Holmes Number Two is rubbing off on me or people just naturally piss me off."

"Oh, so I'm number one?" he asked with an amused smile.

"Well if I called you number two you'd probably raise my taxes," I quipped.

"Don't tempt me," he playfully warned.

_I wonder why he's being exceptionally pleasant today, _I thought. _He was kind of an ass when I first met him. Must be Return of the Body Snatchers or something. _

Mycroft glanced behind him and raised a hand. He lowered it and turned to me.

"I have to go speak with my colleagues," he explained, looking a little disappointed, which surprised me. "But I'll be seeing you soon when we dance. I hope you practiced." He said this with a smile, though I felt thoroughly intimidated.

"Oh, tons," I lied. "I waltzed my ass off."

He smirked and turned to go, then turned back around.

"By the way," he said. "You look sexy in that dress." And just like that he turned back around and walked away.

_Well, that was pretty badass, _I admitted inwardly as he went to the next table. _Two points for Mycroft Holmes. _

I glanced back at everyone else at my table; they were still conversing lightly amongst themselves. Except Lestrade; he was staring daggers at his wine glass.

I smirked. _No date to the junior or senior prom but I get a love triangle with the head of New Scotland Yard and the head of British government. Damn, I am _good!

Then a vibration echoed in my ears. I glanced at the table. My phone was lit up with a message saying "ONE NEW MESSAGE."

The confidence disappeared suddenly and my heart plummeted into an abyss.

_Oh God, no. _

I glanced up and saw everyone staring at me; they'd heard it, too. I picked up the phone with a shaking hand and opened the text.

_I'm not one for crowds. They make me nervous. Meet me in the hallway by the Joan of Arc painting. Oh and leave your gun at the table. No need to make things messy. –JM_

_He knows I have a gun in my purse, _I thought frantically. _How the hell does he know that?_

I looked up at everyone and gave a light nod. The signal.

"I have to use the bathroom," I deadpanned. I stood up from the table and pushed my chair in. Everyone quickly returned to their conversations as planned. Lestrade glanced up at me; he gave me a brave nod, which I returned with a fearful glance. I turned away and made my way numbly out of the ballroom.

I exited the bright light and entered the dark hallway. I glanced right, and then left.

_Where was the Joan of Arc painting?_

I went out on a limb and chose the right side. I began the long walk in the dark of the hallway. Moonlight shimmered on the marble floor from the windows, casting deformed shadows from the many marble statues that guarded these haunted halls.

From the ballroom I heard the tap of a microphone and someone speaking.

It was Mycroft. I stopped walking and listened. He was announcing the first dance…

Then it hit me. _Our dance. _It was happening right now.

Guilt washed over me and stabbed me in the heart. I cringed in the dark and the deadweight of dread increased tenfold.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft," I whispered helplessly to the air. Reluctantly I continued walking down the hallway, wishing upon wish that I were inside the ballroom dancing with Mycroft and making a fool of myself instead of this.

I felt unsteady in my heels as I walked on the marble floor. All I saw ahead of me was an endless hallway shrouded in darkness and highlighted by moonlight.

I glanced at the walls as I passed but saw no Joan of Arc painting.

_Perhaps it's on the left side, _I thought. I stopped walking and took a few steadying breaths. _Everything is going to be fine. Just stay calm and focused. You're a detective, Nicole. Start acting like one. _

Feeling slightly emboldened, I took a few more steps forward, just in case it was the next few paintings but no luck.

I walked for what felt like hours down this endless hallway and still no Joan of Arc painting. I was starting to feel frustrated on top being scared stiff.

I stopped in my footsteps and took a break. My heels were killing me. I wished Juan Perez were here with me, keeping me company like he always used to. Granted we weren't best friends, but he was the closest I had to a friend. _He'd know how to make light of this situation; he'd make some funny joke and make everything okay, _I reminisced.

"Damn," I breathed in nostalgia.

"Looking for someone?" a voice asked behind me.

I gasped and twisted around. A man stood there, his face hidden by the shadows. I could tell he was clad in a black suit and tie, but that was all.

"Scared you, didn't I?" the man said. His voice had a singsong tone to it, as if he were laughing at me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. Well, maybe a little. You kept me waiting for a while, I started to get bored."

I didn't respond. I just stared, my brain not functioning.

"I thought you'd be more talkative," he mused. He slid his hands into his pants pockets. "You always seemed to be a chatty one. But _that's_ _okay_." He literally sang the last two words. "I can do the talking."

The man took a step forward and moonlight splashed on his face. His skin was very pale and his under eyes were a deep purple. His light brown eyes sparkled from the moonlight. He smiled at me cordially but it didn't reach his eyes.

Several red flags shot up in my mind but visually he didn't seem that threatening. This_ is the world-class consulting criminal? _I wondered. _I thought he'd be taller at least. _

"Nice dress," he was saying, taking a hand out of his pocket and gesturing to it with that same calm, cordial smile. "Did you wear it for me?"

I blinked at him, breaking my train of thought.

"What?"

He shrugged.

"Well you knew I'd come here," he explained, feigning innocence of some kind. "I was just wondering."

I shook my head. I vaguely heard myself say, "It was on sale."

Moriarty smirked at the floor and looked back up at me. He pursed his lips in a pouting face.

"I texted you a while ago," he said, his tone mopey. "Thought you might text me back."

I remembered it clear as day. The bombing of the teashop.

"Why did you do that?" I asked. I was shocked that my voice was level and demanding because I sure wasn't like that on the inside.

"So you could see what I'm capable of," he explained, taking a few steps further into the moonlight. I didn't move. "I got the feeling you were getting kind of… _bored._ Thought you might enjoy a little action. Don't worry; I planned to text you so you wouldn't die too early. That wouldn't be any fun, now would it?" His tone had an odd playful edge to it, as if this were all some big joke and he was leading me to the punch line.

"You're lucky I checked my phone," I said. "Innocent people almost lost their lives."

"That's the way the world spins," he said with a shrug-like gesture of his hands. He let them fall at his sides and smiled at me simply. "You of all people should know that."

Something twitched inside me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked cautiously.

Moriarty laughed loudly. Chills ran up my spine.

"Oh, Nikki," he laughed, as if I made some cute faux pas. "You're funny, you really are."

I squared my shoulders and stared him down as best as I could. He cocked his head to the smile and gave me an amused smile.

"I've shown you what I can do and you still underestimate me." He took a few more steps forward until he was just an arm's length away from me. His eyes searched my face; they vaguely reminded me of the way the father looked while nearly murdering his family in _The Shining. _"I know everything there is to know about you."

A drop of sweat streaked down my face. _Sherlock, where are you?_

"How?" I asked, desperate to stall for time.

"Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy," Moriarty said in his singsong tone. "I have access to all your files. Sorry about your parents, by the way, such a shame. And your dog-,"

"What?" I interrupted, staring at him. "What did you say about my parents?"

Moriarty's smile finally reached his eyes. His smile was borderline insanity.

"I read the police file, Nikki," he said. "What a plot-twist! I really didn't see it coming. Such a shame they had to die so… _horrifically_."

Memories I'd spent years repressing resurfaced and clouded my mind.

_"Hey, buddy!" Dad said, stepping in the door every Friday afternoon. "Guess what day it is!" _

_I squealed with excitement and ran into his arms. I was so small then, he could lift me easily into the air. _

_ "It's Buddies Day!" I exclaimed with joy. Dad hugged me tightly in his arms. _

_ "Any movie you wanna see and we'll see it," Dad promised. Mom smiled at us from the kitchen where she was making dinner. _

_ "Don't spoil your dinner on popcorn, you two," she scolded. _

_ "We promise!" I said, receiving a kiss on the cheek from Dad. _

_"Just last night, a local married couple was brutally murdered in their homes. Their daughter, age nineteen, was on her way home for spring break from Yale University and returned home to the calamity. Officers are still looking for the murderer."_

I snapped back to the present and found that my cheeks were wet. _"I love you, Mommy! I love you, Daddy!" _echoed in my ears and clouded my thoughts.

"Such a shame," Moriarty was saying, in his singsong voice. He saw how his words affected me but he put on a face of sympathy. He stepped forward one more time. He was very close now; I could feel his breath on my face when he spoke.

"And then you sought out revenge," he continued in a whisper. Something crumpled inside of me and my knees felt weak. "Congrats on your success, by the way, I was impressed." He grinned at me, showing his bad teeth. "Got away with it, too. You surprised me, Nikki. I never would've expected something like that from you."

_He's trying to fool with your mind, _I warned myself. _Stay strong. _But I could see the blood already. _So much blood…_

"Which is why I'm here," Moriarty said. His shadow was cast on the wall beside him. Glancing at it, I half expected to see horns and a pointed tail to be pointing out of it. "I want to make a deal with you."

I looked back at him. _Where the hell is Sherlock?_

"What kind of deal?" I asked, desperate to continue stalling. _Sherlock should _not _be taking this long. _

"I can expose you for what you did," he began, sending my heart thumping with a sudden fury and fear. "And I will. Unless…" he held the pause for dramatic effect, "…you give me information that I need."

"What information could I possibly give you?" I asked, dubious. "I don't work for the government or the police."

Moriarty flashed me a knowing smile.

"But you've got men pining for you from each," he said, singing again. "A love triangle. How adorable… way too cliché, but you didn't plan it so I won't criticize. Get information from them, and keep me updated on our little friends Sherlock and John, and your record will stay clean."

I forced a confident grin and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Don't you have people to do that for you?" I asked.

"Yes but they're all idiots," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Not you, or as much at least. You're cleverer than the rest and I need someone like you on my team."

_I'm clever? Well, that's new. _

"And what if I refuse regardless?"

He smiled simply at me but something else was staring at me through his eyes. He reached up and caressed the side of my face with his hand. His touch was freezing cold and sent shivers down my spine. I held my ground and didn't move.

"I'll cut your heart out. And don't pull a Sherlock and tell me you don't have one, because I know you do."

Suddenly I was very angry. _How dare he tell me what to do! _

That's when the New Yorker came out. "Hey, _buddy," _I snarled, shoving him with both hands. He blinked at me in surprise. "Nobody 'round here tells _me _what I can and cannot do. So get your _filthy_, _lyin'_ carcass outta here before I freaking kick it out for ya." I gave him one final, powerful shove; he stumbled back a few steps, his arms spreading out for balance.

He looked up at me dangerously and I realized I'd pissed him off. _A lot. _

"Don't taunt me, Nikki," he snarled back, the singsong tone gone. "'Cause I've been watching you. Think of me every time you ask for a Café Mocha and take a cab," he straightened his tuxedo and gave me an insane smile. "And every time you slip and fall in the street."


	12. Taking a Shot in the Dark

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to all who have been reading and reviewing, it sincerely makes my day to see all of your fabulous reviews and views! Ya'll are amazing :) This chapter is particularly shorter than some of the other chapters, but I think you'll still find it satisfying. :)

Answering a question from "Guest" from Chapter 11: Actually I've only watched a few minutes of one episode from Castle, but it didn't grab my attention because I didn't really understand what was going on. But that's cool that Nicole has something in common with a character from that show. *sings* It's a small world after aaallll... :) Thanks for reviewing, you're awesome! :D

Note to "Black Night": I'd say Nicole does resemble Jennifer Lawrence's looks but Nicole isn't as pretty as her. I see Nicole as being pretty but in an average way; she's also 5'5", which is an average height for a female. She does have bright, attention-grabbing blue eyes, but otherwise she's not that extraordinary physically. It's her personality that grabs peoples' attention; her confidence, her can-do attitude, and of course her New York accent. That's why Mycroft and Lestrade were drawn to her; granted, she's pretty, but her personality truly makes her shine. Thanks for reviewing, you rock! :)

And, being the loser I am, I tallied how many people are rooting for Mycroft or Lestrade. So far, from the reviews, it's tied 2-2. *places fingertips together* Iiiiinterestiiing :P I'm such a dork.

*hacks a hole through the bathroom door* HEEEEEEEE'RES Chapter 12! ;)

My memory brought me back to my very first week in London, back when I was so ignorant of the city and its culture and the sight of cars on the other side of the road. I remembered taking a cab back to my old hotel room after having tea with John and Sherlock back when I hardly knew them. Memories came back of how I slipped in the street and how my head swam in pain and the bright lights blinded me. I remembered how strong hands grabbed me from around the torso and dragged me out of the dangerous path of a large double-decker bus, which I later judged from the horn's particular sound.

I stared at Moriarty in shock.

"That was _you?" _I asked in bewilderment and horror.

His lips pulled back in a smile that sent chills up my spine.

"You could at least say thank you," he said in a pouting tone. "I brought you all the way to your room and gave you some Advil. I even wrote you a nice poem. Do you remember that?

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I – _

_I took the one less traveled by, _

_And that has made all the difference. _

I thought it was quite clever and romantic. Don't you think so? Don't hurt my feelings, Nikki."

My blood was running cold. Moriarty had been there the entire time; he'd been watching me since the very beginning. I'd been in the sights of a world-class consulting criminal since I first set foot in London.

"Yeah, whatever," I muttered distractedly, my mind spinning and whirring with panicking questions. I absentmindedly went to run my hand through my hair and then remembered I had it tied back in a curled ponytail at the side of my neck.

"You seem tense." Moriarty, observing the obvious, came a few steps closer to me. "I didn't _have_ to save you, y'know. Wasn't even part of my plan for you to be klutzy like that. But I wasn't ready for you to die so quickly. I have _way _too much fun planned."

I glared daggers at him. I opened my mouth to make another not-so-intelligent wisecrack when shots went off and echoed in the hallway. Screams ensued and chilled my blood. My breath caught in my throat. _Oh, my God…_

Moriarty looked behind him mildly.

"Oh, my gunman is here. He's a bit late, I'll have to dock that from his paycheck."

I gawked at him. _My friends are in there._

"Leave those people alone!" I shouted at him.

He looked back at me and smiled calmly as if people's lives weren't in danger. He had the upper hand now and that really pissed me off.

"Only if you accept my deal."

I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I began to consider the consequences when more shots rang out. Screams echoed in the hallway and hit me like bullets.

"Fine, fine!" I consented, panicking. "Just call off your gunman!"

Moriarty smiled in triumph. He laughed and said, "Oh, I can't just call him off once he's started, mercenaries don't work like that. But thanks for accepting my deal. I look forward to working with you."

My body heated with wrathful anger. I took a step forward to tear his limbs apart when another shot went off. My policewoman instinct kicked in; I took off running as fast as my heels and tube dress would allow towards the sound of the repeating gunshots. I no longer cared about Moriarty. Peoples' lives were in danger.

The hallway lengthened as I ran faster, endless in its path of shadows and moonlight. My heels slipped on the marble floor but I kept up my pace.

An eternity later I made it to the ballroom. All of the government men and women were cowering against the far wall while a man in black clothes wielding a gun taunted them. He raised the gun and fired shots at the ceiling. _One. Two. Three. _

I saw Sherlock, John, Mary, Lestrade, and Molly amidst the cowering throng of people; they were all staring ahead with no way out. Sherlock had a protective arm stretched out in front of John, who held Mary. A man I didn't know lay facedown on the floor, his nice suit emerged in a pool of deep, dark red.

I was about to run out there and kick the gunman's ass when a plan hatched in my head. I hid myself a little and waited for the right moment. From behind me I heard light, casual footsteps in the distance; Moriarty was taking his sweet time. _Perfect. _

"Mycroft Holmes!" the gunman yelled. His tone was American, perhaps mid-western. "Show yourself, you coward!"

To my horror, Mycroft walked out boldly from the crowd towards the gunman. He stopped a few feet away from the man and squared his shoulders.

"Get out of my house, you bastard," he snarled.

The gunman laughed sadistically. He raised his gun at Mycroft's head.

"You British people are so idiotically brave. Let me teach you a lesson."

I took off running. I hurled myself at the gunman and took him down. The shot rang out and ricocheted against the ceiling and blew through a window. The gunman howled in pain as he hit the floor with a sickening thud. His gun slid across the marble dance floor towards the crowd who recoiled from it as if it were a poisonous snake.

The gunman threw me off and started to get up. Fury exploded within me and numbed my thoughts. Instinctively, I pounced on him again and pinned him down on the ground. Straddling him, I delivered powerful punch after punch to his face.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" Moriarty's voice boomed from behind me. I stopped punching and saw blood on my hands. It was warm on my skin and dripped down the back of my hands from my knuckles.

The gunman looked up at me cross-eyed and dazedly. Blood spewed out of his nose like water out of a faucet and dribbled down the sides of his face and down his chin.

Footsteps echoed on the marble floor until a pair of black shoes came into my vision. A few screams and gasps came from the crowd but no one moved. I didn't look up.

"_Nikki_," he chastised as if I'd broken a window with a baseball. His black dress shoes were in my line of vision. "That's not very nice."

I glanced at Mycroft, who stood at a distance. He was staring in horror at my red-stained hands.

I stood up and faced Moriarty. The gunman lay still on the groan, moaning softly.

Staring the criminal down, I balled my hands into fists. Moriarty smiled at me mildly.

"Clearly," Moriarty began, glancing at my fists, "there's more to you than just a pretty face."

He glanced to the crowded people still cowering. I saw Sherlock standing resolutely and straight-backed, glaring daggers at Moriarty. I understood his silence by the concentrated look on his face; he was waiting to hear bits of Moriarty's purpose for resurrection.

"A little attitude," Moriarty was saying. "Some beauty and some swagger. Did you know Shakespeare invented that word, swagger? He invented lots of words. Changed the world… just like I did. And, sweetheart, I ain't done yet." He took a mock step towards the crowd, earning several gasps and a scream. My group of friends stood stock-still, making me proud to know them.

Moriarty smirked at me. He turned to the crowd.

"Quite a roommate you've got there, Sherlock. Oh, _hi_, by the way. Did you miss me? I missed you. Coming back from the dead feels so… _exhilarating_, huh?" He gave a wide grin of excitement. "I just love seeing the shocked looks on people's faces!" He imitated the bewildered looks of the people in the crowd by opening his mouth in a comical O and then laughed to himself amusedly. "Classic."

"Would you mind telling me how you are alive, then?" Sherlock asked, taking a few bold steps forward. The gun was near his feet now, but he didn't make a move for it. _Get the gun, Sherlock!_

Mycroft glanced sideways at his brother and then at the gun on the ground. He inched a little towards it.

"Oh, not yet!" Moriarty said, his tone excited and his eyes on Sherlock. "That's the big finale! Can't pull back the curtains behind Door Number One yet. You'll find out soon enough though, _don't worry_." He turned back to me and flashed that smirk again.

"Nice chatting with you Nikki, but I have to run. Lots to do," he turned and started to leave, and then turned back around. "Oh, and enjoy London. It's a wonderful city, nice and… _safe." _He chuckled at his own morbid joke and walked out of the ballroom. Just like that, he was gone.

I looked down at the motionless gunman on the floor, still moaning and groaning. Mycroft walked up to me and put a protective hand on my shoulder, but not before picking the gun up off of the floor.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yeah I'm fine," I said, though my voice was hoarse. "I don't think the asshole over there is feeling too good, though."

Mycroft shrugged.

"He had it coming to him," he said dismissively, which made me grateful. I was afraid he'd call the cops on me. "I'm just glad you're safe."

The crowd started to disperse a little, and my group of friends came over to me and checked my mental and physical health – "I'm fine, I promise," I repeated over and over.

"What did Moriarty say?" Lestrade asked, shouldering in front of Mycroft.

Then a lump of guilt hit me as I remembered the dreaded deal. I'd accepted it to save my friends, but now I had to betray them. _They can't know._

"Nothing, just stalling for that gunman to come in and rough you guys up," I lied. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me; I quickly averted them by glancing at the windows at the far wall.

Suddenly the song Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees started playing. It echoed in the distance and then got louder until it was clear as day. The world-class consulting criminal swaggered back into the ballroom with a beaming grin. He held his cell phone in his hand, which was playing the American seventies' classic.

"So sorry about this, I'm _soooo _changeable!" he exclaimed with delight. "I'd forgotten to say goodbye and a little thank you to Mycroft for such a wonderful party. Drinks all around!" He snapped his fingers and the lights went out.

Several shots rang out in the dark and people screamed. I immediately hit the floor and covered my head. By the time the shots died out, Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees had died out into the distance.

The lights came back on as suddenly as they'd turned off. Shrieks and groans echoed throughout the room. I got up and surveyed the damage with terror. Several men and women were either dead or clutching bloodied limbs or torsos and moaning or shrieking. Mycroft held the gun in his hands, having fired it in the dark in Moriarty's direction.

Suddenly my heart froze. Mary was on the ground, clutching her shoulder. Her teeth were gritted and blood was dripping between her fingers.


	13. To Be or Not to Be

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, ya'll are amazing! :D 2:20pm - I've edited this chapter because I realized that I made a mistake in my writing. Just a heads up if it looks a little different near the end if you read it as soon as I posted.

Everything was a blur. From what John told me after Mary was shot I immediately ordered him to call 911 (though it's 999 in the UK, I didn't know that) and ripped off a part of my dress and pressed it against Mary's bullet wound in her shoulder until the ambulances showed up. After Mary had been loaded into the ambulance with a very upset John, the rest of us followed in cabs and Mycroft in his nice black Corvette.

I had come to my full senses later and found myself sitting in a hospital chair, my fingers twitching. I had seen the blood on my hands and had a mini-heart attack until I remembered beating the pulp out of the gunman, which made me proud of myself. That's when I asked John about how we'd gotten to the hospital.

The doctor came back later and informed us Mary lost a lot of blood but she was going to be okay because someone had applied sufficient pressure to the wound for a period of time. The doctor assured us that her unborn child was going to be just fine, but his creased forehead showed worry.

No one spoke as we waited. John, Molly, Greg, and I had all taken seats in the waiting room while Sherlock paced incessantly and Mycroft leaned against the wall, giving the floor an angry glare. We were the only ones in the waiting room except for a lonely woman sitting in the far corner of the room, weeping quietly into a handkerchief.

I kept seeing Moriarty out of the corners of my eyes and I kept hearing his calm, sadistic laugh amongst the authoritative voices of the doctors and nurses.

I made a deal with him. I made a deal with Moriarty to betray my friends to save my own skin.

I wanted to bang my head against a thick wall. _How could I do such a thing? _Then I remembered. I did it so he'd call off his gunman. _I made a deal that would betray my friends, to save my friends. _

The irony was unbearable. Either way, they would've been in danger of dying. Like Mary was. Like Mycroft almost had been.

A storm of confused emotions swirled angrily inside me. _If I keep this deal, I'll keep my friends and everything I've worked for but I'll simultaneously be betraying all that. But if I call the deal off, I'll lose everything I've worked so hard for – years spent cleaning up the mess I made, keeping everything under wraps and classified – and I'll lose my friends and be thrown in jail to rot, alone and forgotten. _

I ran a shaking hand through my hair, but again found it tied to the side.

_To be moral, or not to be, now that is the question. _

I glanced up, finding no solution to my inner dilemma. I found Mycroft gazing at me; he smoothly looked off to the side when our eyes met. I glanced back at the floor, feeling empty and numb inside.

Sherlock's pacing slowed to a stop. He turned and looked at us all through weary and bloodshot eyes. He took a seat next to John and put his face in his hands.

"Too many variables," he muttered to himself, his dark locks trembling as he lightly shook his head. "Too many possibilities." John put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, to which Sherlock didn't react.

I glanced at the clock on the wall; three hours had passed since we got here. It was midnight.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Manhattan at night. Beautiful lights shimmering through my apartment window, the vague smell of burning gasoline, the honking of car horns, the swish-swish of passing vehicles on the street, Rocky's soft fur against my legs as we slept in my bed, his light snorting as he dreamt about whatever dogs dream about.

I opened my eyes and felt wetness on my cheeks. I quickly wiped them before anyone saw. _What I'd give to feel Rocky's soft fur one more time. I would never leave him home alone for so long. I'd give up my lunch money to get him a good-quality dog walker. I'd spend more time with him instead of doing desk work—_

"Nikki," John said from beside me.

"Don't call me that," I said without thinking.

"What do you-?"

"Just," I sighed, then stuttered, "j-just don't call me that." I suddenly found it hard to keep my composure. The weight of the world was on my shoulders. "What?"

"I just wanted to say… thanks. For helping Mary out. That was… very brave of you."

"It was," Molly said quietly from my other side. Lestrade leaned over and nodded with a tired smile. Mycroft grunted from where he stood, still staring at the floor.

I smiled a little; a little warmth spread inside me. _At least I have _some _virtue. _

"Anyone would've done it," I said humbly.

"But they didn't. You did," John said. I turned and looked at him. He was gazing at me with a face full of gratitude. "You are truly a great friend. I'm in your debt."

Guilt dropped on my shoulders.

"No, don't, you're fine," I insisted uncomfortably. "You don't owe me anything-,"

"Yes, I do," John interrupted firmly. A smile spread on his face. "You saved my wife's life. I owe you. You just let me know, and I'll be there to own up to you."

Everyone else was listening now, but being discreet about it. Sherlock wasn't; he was glancing sideways through narrowed eyes.

I smiled awkwardly.

"Thanks, Doctor Who," I forced, though it didn't seem so funny now. After a few moments of silence, I decided to explain myself. "Moriarty kept calling me Nikki. I just… it makes me uncomfortable…" then an uneasy and croaky, "you feel me?"

"I feel you," John said, though the phrase sounded weird coming from him, like when upper-class people try to act ghetto.

I glanced away from him and towards Lestrade just in time to see him and Mycroft exchange unfriendly looks before averting their eyes and glaring in opposite directions.

_Damn, now I gotta deal with that too. _It'd made me feel like a total boss earlier, but now it was just another way to hurt my friends.

A doctor in a white lab coat and teal scrubs strode into the waiting room, holding a plastic clipboard with papers clipped on it. The doctor wore thin, bronze-rimmed glasses with rectangular lenses. The lenses made his eyes seem two times as big as normal.

"I'm looking for the friends of Mary, is this all of you?" he asked, gesturing to the group of us, excluding the lonely crying woman.

"Is she alright?" John asked suddenly, jumping from his chair. "Is the baby okay?"

The doctor held up a reassuring hand.

"All is well, Dr. Watson," he said with a warm smile full of knowing. You could almost feel the intelligence wafting off of this man. "She is in good health, thanks to the pressure applied to her wound. She's in pain but she'll recover in due time. I'd say about three to five days and the pain should be nearly gone."

"Oh, thank God," John murmured, a ghost of a smile on his face. The creases in his face were lifted and he seemed calmed.

"We're going to keep her over night to run some additional tests just to be absolutely certain," the doctor added, which creased John's face again. "But she'll be able to check out tomorrow at nine AM."

"Can I see her?" John asked, his tone begging.

The doctor sighed and his forehead crinkled in compassion.

"No. She's not awake. She's been through a lot of pain in the past few hours. You'll be able to see her tomorrow." The doctor gazed at the poor husband for a moment longer and then turned and walked out of the waiting room.

John stood there with his arms limp at his sides. Sherlock stood up and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Come now, John," he said in a strange tone I'd never heard before. "Time to go." John nodded weakly and let Sherlock lead him out the door, the rest of us following.

Sherlock's and my flat weren't far from the hospital so we chose to walk. So we bade goodbye to a tear-stricken Molly, a shaken John, and to Mycroft and Lestrade, the former giving me a handshake and a surprise kiss on the hand and the latter giving me an uncomfortably long hug. Molly and Lestrade took a cab together to save time. Mycroft reluctantly offered to drop John off at his house, to which John reluctantly agreed.

So Sherlock and I walked home in the freezing weather, both without coats because we had forgotten them at Mycroft's mansion in the scramble to the hospital. I stopped halfway there to take off my heels, which were killing my ankles and leaving sores on the sides of my feet.

A terrible gust of wind blew down the street, causing me to huddle against Sherlock for warmth. I was really embarrassed but I knew he was cold too when he put an arm around my bare shoulder. So we walked like that to 221B, morose, grief-stricken, and freezing cold.

Mrs. Hudson greeted us at the door and fretted over us, which for once felt very nice. She made us hot soup and forced us to sit down in the kitchen and eat before letting us change clothes or do anything else.

When she left the kitchen, Sherlock finally spoke.

"What else did Moriarty say to you?" his voice was hoarse and exhausted.

I swallowed a spoonful of chicken noodle soup.

"Like I said before, just a bunch of talk and empty threats to keep me away from the gunman. I think he was trying to kill _you, _but the gunman had other plans."

Sherlock nodded slowly, taking in my lie. Well, only partial lie; I honestly thought that Moriarty had plans to kill Sherlock, if not now then eventually, but the gunman was deadest on seeing Mycroft in a pool of his own blood.

"Probably a rebellious mercenary," Sherlock was saying. "He was American, which means Moriarty has contacts in other countries. I'm not surprised in the slightest, but it's a bit of a rude awakening, considering I saw him shoot himself through his skull over two years ago." He took a pensive spoonful of soup while staring into space.

"This Moriarty guy is really gonna get on my nerves," I muttered, swishing my spoon around in my soup. It was difficult to have an appetite after the events of that night.

"Oh, like everyone else?" Sherlock quipped. I smirked at him.

"Even more than that."

"Looks like Moriarty's in serious trouble then," he retorted with a smile.

"Hell yeah he is," I said, brandishing my spoon at him. In a fake French accent resembling one of the characters from Disney's _Ratatouille, _I announced, holding up a thumb, "I'll kill de man… with _dis thumb!" _

Mrs. Hudson came in right in time to hear my French vow, and stood staring at us in horror. Sherlock and I laughed until we cried, not necessarily because it was so funny but because we truly needed a laugh in times like these.


End file.
